Manipulation
by Ecri
Summary: COMPLETE! A string of murders, potentially serial killings, have everyone stymied, including Special Agent Don Eppes and his genius brother, Charlie...especially when Charlie gets blamed.
1. Default Chapter

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I do not own Numb3rs and I am making no money from this story.

Manipulation

Part 1

By Ecri

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March 18

Special Agent Don Eppes stared at the stack of recent unsolved murders that seemed to mock him from the corner of his desk. He sighed heavily as he tossed today's addition onto the pile. The increase in murder victims had led him to consider that these were not isolated individual cases as he and the department had first assumed, but he couldn't truly find a common thread. There were similarities to the methods, but nothing identical. Two had been shot at close range, one had been shot from a distance, one had been tied up and beaten, one had been stabbednothing linked each death.

The first victim had been an elderly man on vacation in LA. The second had been a good deal younger. He was a highly decorated FBI agent from San Francisco in town for a conference. This one was the one that had ignited a lot of interest from local law enforcement. They had a cop killer on their hands. The third was a lifelong resident of LA who taught at a private school. The fourth was an elderly womanthe fifth was a younger womanhe was getting nowhere and had gone back to the theory that these were indeed individual cases.

It didn't track, though.

This many murders in less than 5 days was abnormal to say the least, but there was more to it than that. Don had learned over he years to trust his instincts, and they were screaming at him now that something bizarre was happening.

He turned to look at Terry who was going through the coroner's reports. She seemed to sense his attention and looked up at him, her face grim.

"I'm getting nothing."

Don nodded. "Me, too. We've all been through the cases. There's no reason to believe it's the work of one killer"

She sensed his hesitation. "But" she prompted, leaning forward to look him in the eye.

"Butit feels like they are."

She nodded and he could tell that she agreed. "What's the next step?"

He didn't hesitate like he knew he would have weeks ago. "Charlie."

Terry smiled and nodded. "If anyone can see a pattern in the seemingly random"

"Charlie can." They finished the sentence together, but, though Terry smiled slightly about it, Don couldn't force himself to reciprocate. Something about this case bothered him, and bringing it to his brother's attention felt like a mistake.

Mistake or not, it was the only thing he could think to do. If Charlie couldn't find a connection, he had to find another approach. He sighed again and picked up his phone, dialing Charlie's cell from memory.

****

Later that day

Charlie played with the factors, the variables, assigning values and assessing probabilities as he worked. The equations were complex, and he felt Don's stare going through him. Without looking up from his work, he spoke to his brother. "This might take awhile."

"Trying to get rid of me?"

Charlie looked up in surprise. "No."

Don nodded.

Charlie watched him for a moment, and wasn't surprised when Don asked him a question. "The randomness of the victims and the weapons, that indicates more than one killer, doesn't it?"

"Nothing is random." Charlie replied automatically. Don just glared at him, so Charlie tried to explain. "The pattern exists. Even when trying to chose at random, a human will have natural tendencies and will automatically return to the same point without realizing it"

"Charlie, is there more than one killer?" Don's exasperation was apparent.

"I don't know yet."

Don exhaled noisily. "He killed an officer"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, he did."

Don looked heavenward as though in supplication. "I need to know, Charlie, and I'm not comfortable bringing this to you."

Charlie blinked. "Why not?"

Don shrugged. "Somethingwrong."

Charlie blinked at the imprecise words. "Okay."

Don glared at him.

"Don, if there's a pattern, I'll find it. I promise. Look, there are already a few factors"

Charlie began to explain some of the basic mathematical premises he'd picked out of the cases. Apparently, he'd gotten a little too technical.

"Charlie, come on! I didn't understood that! I hate it when you do that!"

Charlie stared at his brother as blankly as Don had stared at him a moment ago. "Well, I" He did this with his students. He helped **them** understand. Why was it so difficult for him to get Don to understand? What was different? _Are you kidding_? He asked himself. _Hero worship, a need to fit in, a wish to belong, a desire to be like every other kid, and yet unable to ignore the equations, the numbers that flooded his brain at all hours, awake and asleep. Charlie had wished that he didn't see the patterns, the tendenciesthe way a fish swims, the way a swirl of steam rises from a cup of coffee._

Predicting Don's walks in a game of baseball by the way he stood at the plate

Wondering why that was infinitely more fascinating to himthat the mathematics of baseball were what drew him to the sport rather than the more visceral, the raw emotion of it that drew others

He shook off the thoughts. He had to simplify. "Okay, Don" His hands began to shape the air in front of him as though that would allow him to communicate more easily with a mind less entranced by mathematics. "Imagine"

"No," Don was having none of it. "Charlie, I'm sorry. I can't listen to anymore. I'm going to follow up some leads the old-fashioned way." He grabbed his coat. "If you have a breakthrough, call me."

"Don, wait! If you just listenwait, come on! Donny!" Charlie followed his brother out of the room and into the hallway, but gave up when he realized how quickly Don was walking. This was his 'leave me alone' walk. This was how he ran away from Charlie when Charlie's genius was getting to him.

It had been happening all Charlie's life, but he had never gotten used to it. No matter how old he got, or how many times Don ran away from him, he was still hurt by it. He somehow upset Don so much, that his brother wanted to escape him, and he did this just by being himself.

His mother had told him, when he was young, that Don's frustration was directed more at himself than at his younger brother, but Charlie had trouble grasping that thought. Don had everything. He was athletic, witty, self-possessed, the girls liked him and the boys didn't try to beat him up. What frustrations could he be dealing with?

Charlie shook his head and went over and over everything that he and Don had said to each other, trying to figure out where he'd lost Don. What had he said or not said that had so infuriated his brother? He couldn't see it, and he knew it was unlikely that he ever would.

He threw down his pen and tore the sheet of paper off the legal pad he'd been using. Don was right, it was taking too long, and the fact that he needed more variables, more factors, wasn't a pleasant one to contemplate. He hated the bloody, messy reality of Don's world crashing into the clean, ordered world of numbers.

When he stood back from the white board in the bullpen and saw the numbers not for the portions of the equations they represented but for the people, the crimes, the deathit made him tremble. It made his mouth go dry, and he wondered how Don dealt with this sort of thing day after day without going crazy or looking for an escape. It made him think of P versus NP.

It was a difficult urge to deny, but he didn't have the time to deal with it now. Don was right. Maybe he had missed some detail. He should go through the files again and look for another variable. His stomach lurched at the thought of going through the details of the cases once more. The last time he'd done it, he had imagined Don's face in place of the dead Agent, and his father's face in place of first victim. The man had, after all, resembled Alan Eppes.

That had been difficult for Charlie because his mind recoiled at the thought of Alan Eppes dying at all, let alone so violently. In the year since his mother's death, Charlie had dreaded the thought that he might one day lose his father, or his brother.

He hadn't pointed out the similarities of the victim to Alan Eppes, but he knew Don must have seen it. One of the problems he was having with the equation was that he was trying to force other factors. He was trying to find a logical way to exclude his father from the list of potential victims.

He supposed that Don had blown up just now because Charlie had tried to explain the equation to him in mathematical terms instead of in a more user-friendly method. He accepted that, but he still wondered if there wasn't more to it. It was why he reviewed the conversation over and over. He knew that Don had a hard time coming to him for help. He understood why that was. Charlie was the younger brother, by a good number of years, yet Charlie was the one who'd excelled. Graduating high school the same day Charlie did, and seeing his younger brother snag the title of Valedictorian must have been difficult. He understood–intellectually at least–that Don resented him. He even understood why. What he didn't understand was how he could make it better and yet remain true to himself.

He couldn't change who and what he was. He couldn't dumb it down for his brother's sake, though he had tried to do that once when he was eight. He'd suddenly refused to do any equations more difficult than any other eight-year-old could do. He'd purposely tried to appear stupid to his tutors. He had wanted nothing more than for Don to put an arm around his shoulder and play catch with him, or to go to the movies together.

In his mind, Don hadn't liked him very much. He remembered Don's frustration when they were growing up, but at the time, he'd interpreted it as anger, as hatred. And he'd seen himself, his 'genius', as the cause of it all.

His family had seen through that ruse. How could they not? Don had come to him and told him that he was denying himself and that it had to stop. Don had been angry then, too, and Charlie had cringed away from his brother afraid suddenly that Donny would hate him both for being who he was and for trying to be who he wasn't.

Don had instead explained to his genius brother that denying yourself was the worst kind of lying. Then, as if he'd sensed somehow what it was that Charlie needed, he'd draped an arm over Charlie's shoulders and had taken him out in the yard and taught him how to hit a baseball.

The bittersweet memories of his childhood aside, Charlie's current frustrations with his brother would not be so easily healed. Don wanted an answer, and the mathematics of this particular case seemed to preclude an easy one. Complexities arose at every turn, and this case was easily the most intriguing and the most terrifying Charlie had seen.

He felt he was missing something vital, but had a desperate feeling that he would need more data to figure that out. More data, however, meant more victims, and Charlie fought against the idea that haunted him in such instances that needing more data was like waiting for the killer to kill again. At times it made him feel like a ghoul. If only he could find a way to avoid that need.

****

March 21

Don stared at the photos from the eighth crime scene. This one was particularly disturbing, for somehow, this victim looked so much like his father, that Don had nearly lost his lunch when he'd seen it. He knew it would shake Charlie, and, rather than risk another retreat into P versus NP, Don had not let Charlie see it.

It had been hard enough that the first victim had looked so much like Alan Eppes. That the eighth victim did as well was mind boggling. He would have to mention it to Charlie if this case didn't shed enough light on Charlie's equations. For some reason, they weren't coming together this time. Don didn't know why, and Don was beginning to think it had been a mistake even to ask for Charlie's help on this one.

Sometimes, Charlie forgot that not everyone he spoke to was a mathematician. And what he couldn't seem to get Charlie to understand was that he couldn't take all the time in the world over this. Don's supervisor was demanding answers. The Press was doing the same. There had to be an arrest and soon, or Don would be removed from the case.

Putting that aside, Don wasn't entirely certain they needed Charlie's help on this case. He'd doubled the agents doing legwork on it, and Terry had given him a number of good leads. Why then, was something about this case still gnawing at the back of his mind?

It couldn't be just that two of the victims seemed to resemble his father. There had to be more to it. Don's anger with his brother was really frustration over his own inability to fix this one on his own. At Quantico, he'd been a star pupil. On the opposite coast from his brother, Don had finally found out what it meant to excel. He'd been told, by more than one instructor, that he had the instincts of a man with forty years on the job. Tests had been devised and revamped because, each time, no matter how difficult or twisted the facts became, Don was able to solve whatever riddle lay at the heart of each case.

Now, he felt that he–and his team–had begun to depend too much on Charlie. How many times had he heard agents talking about how they were waiting on Charlie to give them a lead? Charlie's brilliance was leading to laziness for Don and for the agents under him. He couldn't let it continue, and maybe this perceived failure of Charlie's to nail down a potential suspect would be his ticket.

He had thought about submitting a report that Charlie's consultation with the department was no longer viable and then Charlie's participation in his career would be over. He tried not to consider the fact that this might hurt Charlie. After all, it was partially for Charlie that he was doing this. Charlie was seeing too much. His Ivory Tower of Academia was being stained a blood red, and Don didn't want to see the innocence in his brother's eyes whittle away to nothing. Not only that, but, as involved as Charlie was in FBI work, it was really only a matter of time before he got hurt. Not that he'd allow Charlie on a crime scene, but things had a way of happening. Of course, Charlie was also, apparently, consulting on cases for the NSA, and who knew how many other organizations. He would have to do a lot to isolate Charlie from all of these agencies, but there had to be a way. Even considering this felt vaguely like a betrayal, but Don needed to keep Charlie safe.

****

March 22

Charlie watched his brother, unnoticed, as the elder Eppes issued orders to the other agents. He had always liked seeing Don work. He was so confident and self-assured, competent no matter what the situation.

He waited until Don was finished, then approached his brother.

Don looked up at him from where he sat and nodded in greeting. No smile, no questions, Charlie could tell Don wasn't quite ready to talk to him again.

Still, he had to explain

"Don, I need to tell you something"

Don sighed heavily, and Charlie didn't know if he should just talk very fast or give up and leave. He didn't have time to consider this as Don stood, his anger and abruptness pushing Charlie backward like a physical blow.

"Charlie, I really can't do this right now."

"But"

"Is the equation ready?"

"No, but"

"Charlie, go home, or to class, or whatever" He looked down briefly, then looked Charlie in the eye, his voice dropping so that only Charlie could hear him. "I really can't do this right now."

Charlie nodded, unable to hide his hurt. "We'll talk later?" He waited for an answer but one never came, so he spoke the words again, changing them from a question to a certainty with a hopeful tone of voice. "We'll talk later."

He headed for the door, but couldn't keep from glancing back at his brother as Don began to speak with Terry, the two of them leaning over a stack of files.

"Little rough on him, weren't you?"

Don looked up at Terry. "I should have guessed you'd take his side."

She held up her hands even as her eyebrows rose. "I can't take sides if I don't know what you're arguing about. I'm just sayinghe looked upset."

"He is. I am"

"But I should butt out, right?"

Don smiled. "I knew there was a reason you joined the FBI."

Don kept it light, but he knew Terry was right. Charlie had no way of knowing the pressure he'd been facing recently. He couldn't know that the department was on him for results. Charlie never considered such things. His own supervisors were remarkably patient with him, and Charlie had never had to consider things like finding results fast. It was one reasons Don had been wary about agreeing to let Charlie consult for the FBI. The term deadline took on an entirely different meaning for law enforcement officers.

David Sinclair called his name and, from the excited look on his face, Don guessed, hoped, that he'd found a break in the case.

"What is it?" He asked the question in a deliberately even tone afraid to show too much excitement in case this too turned out to go nowhere.

"We've got another."

Don frowned. "Where was this one?"

David consulted his notes. "Just found the body at homeneighbor called it in when the man didn't answer his phone or his door for two days and his car was sitting in his driveway. The neighbor says he knew the man was supposed to be going on vacation and used the spare key he'd been given so he could water the plants when he couldn't reach him." 

Don nodded. "Let's go."

The team assembled and darted out of the office.

****

Later that day

Charlie stared at the equation he'd reworked in his notebook. It wasn't adding up, and he really needed to talk to Don about it all. He needed to go over the case files again. His cell rang and he scowled until he saw from the caller ID that it was Don.

"Don"

"Charlie, I need you at the office. We've got another case. Ninth one. Maybe there'll be enough to kick start your equation."

Charlie nodded, forgetting Don couldn't see him for a moment. "Okay. Do I meet you there?"

"Yeah, I'm in my car now." He paused and Charlie had the notion that Don had something to say, but didn't know how to say it. "This onethis one was grisly, Charlie."

Charlie hadn't expected the warning. It must have been horrifying for Don to have said that much. "Okay. I'll be there soon."

"Charlie"

Charlie heard his brother's hesitation, and the emotion behind it. He smiled. "Forget it, Don. I wasirritating and I know it. We're good."

Don told him to get straight to Don's desk, though he knew that that's where Charlie would go anyway. His brother was almost predictablealmost.

Terry turned and smiled as Charlie entered the room. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hey." Charlie's reply was immediate, though his eyes were already scanning the room for his brother.

Terry gestured to a chair. "You can have a seat. He'll be back in a minute."

Charlie nodded and sat by his brother's desk. Terry moved back to her own, but she continued to watch Charlie. She'd been worried about both him and Don on this case. Don seemed impatient to get answers, and pushing Charlie rarely got any. Usually, it slowed the process. Terry wondered, not for the first time, how two brothers could be at the same time, so alike and so different.

When she'd first met Don at Quantico, it had taken him some time even to mention he had a brother. He didn't really talk about his home life back then unless forced into it. Then one night, on their first date, he'd asked about her, so she'd returned the favor. Hearing about Charlie had been astonishing, but she'd been more interested in how Don had handled it. From her own observations, she'd have said he'd done well. It had to have been difficult living with a genius little brother all that time, even graduating high school on the same day, and then to have that brother, barely into his teens and finishing up his freshman year at CalSci.

Don's reticence about his family didn't surprise Terry. After getting to know him, she'd assumed it was largely because Don was so protective of his brother, though she was sure that he was also happy to be out from under little brother's shadow and clear across the country.

Charlie, she'd come to realize, loved his brother intensely, but without the mathematics that so ruled his life, he didn't seem sure how to express that. She'd spoken to Alan Eppes on more than one occasion about his two boys. He'd seemed glad that they were self-reliant, but also expressed concern that they didn't interact well sometimes. He'd been worried about them working together claiming that brotherly competitiveness, not to say sibling rivalry, could easily ruin their fragile relationship. When last she'd seen Alan Eppes, he'd confided in her that he was thrilled to see that his boys were finally growing closer.

She could see it, too. There was less thought to leaving Charlie out of the loop in almost all aspects of his life. At work, unless something seemed pertinent to the equations Charlie came up with, Don didn't bother to tell him about it. In his home life, because Charlie seemed always unaware of things that didn't relate directly to whatever project he was working on, Don didn't always tell Charlie what was going on. Not that much went on in the private life of a workaholic FBI agent.

Don walked in then, and she watched Charlie straighten in his chair.

"Hey, Charlie." He tossed a case folder in front of his brother, and Charlie wasted no time opening it. Terry could see that all the photos had been removed.

"Male, 39" Charlie stopped reading through the vitals. He held out a hand expectantly. "Can I see the file on victim number 2?"

Don nodded and took the file from his current box and handed it to Charlie. Charlie got excited for a moment. "These two victims, there are a lot of similarities,"

Don nodded again. "I noticed that, but that doesn't explain anything. Why don't the others don't have any of these characteristics?"

Charlie looked up from the files. "They don't need to. This one nailed it, Don. We're definitely dealing with one killer. This is a serial case."

Don shook his head. "How do you know?"

Charlie held up a hand and counted on his fingers. "Victims one and eight and two and nine are alike. Your next victim, number ten, will share characteristics of victim number three."

Don grabbed the folders and compared one and seven and two and eight. Then he took out number three. "Next victim will be younger than the second"

Charlie stood, and Terry could see the restlessness that accompanied his movements whenever he wanted to work with numbers. "Can I have the files? I have some ideas for the equation"

Don picked up the folders and handed them to Charlie.

Terry watched the easy interaction as Don forgot the pressures from above and began the arduous task of reading through the similarities and differences of the victims for Charlie's benefit. It was true. As problem solvers, the Eppes brothers worked wonders together.

Don watched his brother leave. Charlie had said mumbled vaguely about an appointment and had promised to call when he had the equation worked out, but Don could tell that something about the equation, or maybe about the case, troubled him. That Charlie couldn't talk about yet sent alarms ringing in Don's head. Charlie's instinct was as good as Don's, and, sometimes, Don felt it might just be better. Backed up by applied mathematics, Charlie seemed able to see around corners. If what he saw around this particular corner made him lose the ability to articulate what he saw, then Don was certain his own vague misgivings were likely justified. But what did any of that mean?

He turned to Terry who had looked up as Charlie had left. "He seems distracted."

"He does." Don admitted. "How about you? Any leads?"

Terry shook her head. "We did find a connection between a few of the victims but no common thread links them all."

David came running into the room then, and Don and Terry looked at him expectantly. David walked to Don's desk and spoke very softly. "Don, there's word that Kraft brought in a new consultant on this a couple of days ago."

"What? I'm handling this case!"

David nodded. "There have been too many murders and, since the second victim was an agent, there's pressure from Washington to solve this. Kraft isn't convinced that we're not depending too much on Charlie" David hesitated, but Don just nodded.

"Go on."

"There's a rumor that someone high up pulled Charlie's file."

Don looked at Terry, then back at David, surprise and anger warring on his face. "_Charlie's_ file?"

Terry tried to calm Don. "Everyone has an FBI file, Don, especially consultants and the families of agents."

"I know that, but why would someone want to read Charlie's?" Abruptly, he stood. His anger at the perceived slight against his brother, as well as the idea that his competence as an Agent in charge of this investigation was being questioned, propelled him from his seat.

"I've got to get to the bottom of this."

Terry nodded and stood. "I'm going with you."

To Be Continued


	2. part 2

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Manipulation part 2

By Ecri

Assistant Director Glenn Kraft stared at the report. "Are you sure about this?"

The man nodded, his ghost of a smile more intimidating than reassuring. "It's all in there. I just wish I'd have finished the profile sooner. I don't know how this slipped past the NSA and the FBI. There's no way it should have gone this far."

Kraft nodded. It was a shame. Don Eppes was a good agent. This might end his career. Kraft scrubbed a hand across his cheek. He'd met Charlie Eppes. It was hard to believe this of the mild, unassuming man who'd helped solve several big cases. "I don't see how any of this is possible. What does Washington want to do?" Kraft asked.

The man shrugged. "With the evidence we have, now that we know Mr. Eppes was intentionally delaying coming up with an answer, we can make an arrest and try to get a confession. His is the type that cracks easy under pressure. We want this handled quickly, because quietly is too much to hope for." He paused for a moment. "It's easy to understand now why Dr. Eppes took his time coming up with an answer for this case.

Kraft nodded as he got to his feet. "I'll handle it today."

The other man stood and shook the A.D.'s hand. "I'm sure you will. Do whatever you feel necessary about Special Agent Eppes. The Bureau trusts your judgement."

Kraft watched the man leave, apprehension sinking into his stomach like a lead ball. He knew how Agent Eppes was going to react, and was grateful that he had been given the chance to handle it on his own. He was going to give Don as much leeway as was humanly possible. Even then, he wasn't sure he wasn't going to see the end of Eppes' career, and perhaps of Lake's as well.

Larry wandered into Charlie's office certain he'd find the young genius huddled over some equation or other, or perhaps struggling to grade some of his students papers. It was with great surprise that he realized the office was dark and empty. He frowned. He hadn't seen his young friend in some time, and usually, when that was the case, he would find the prodigy here. He tried to recall the last conversation they'd had in the hopes that it would allow him to determine where Charlie might be.

He recalled something about another new case for the FBI and he sighed. He didn't really like how intertwined Charlie's life had become with his brother's in recent weeks. Mathematicians, especially those of Charlie's caliber, were often asked to consult with law enforcement or government agencies, but there was a personal note to this involvement that such consultations rarely encountered. Charlie had been consulting for a lot of agencies for quite a number of years. Larry was certain he had many reasons for agreeing to consult for the FBI at all, but those that topped the list had to do with his brother.

Don's approval still meant a lot to the twenty-something prodigy. Though Larry doubted Charlie would ever admit it, the young man undoubtedly hoped that he and his brother could achieve a closeness that Charlie's genius and the separation they'd endured because of it–and because of Don's decision to attend Quantico–had robbed them of in the past.

He knew Charlie's childhood had been a lonely one. He was probably one of the few who knew Charlie so well. Unable to complain about what he'd endured to the parents who had sacrificed everything in order to educate a genius, or to the brother who often times resented his kid brother's brilliance, Charlie had turned to Larry–his professor, his confidant, his friend.

Larry had been no prodigy, but he understood the one thing that Charlie knew better than anything else–better than any_one _else–on the planet: mathematics. The two had bonded over unsolvable equations. Larry, seeing in Charlie a grasp of mathematics that he found enticing and a teenager in need of human contact, had gone out of his way to make himself available to the young man. When they had met, Charlie had been in his early teens, but his mind! Ah, what a grasp of integers, of sequences, of the truly ungraspable!

He'd been there for Charlie when, during his mother's illness, he had finally hit a wall in his P versus NP obsession. He'd held a distraught Charlie in his arms as the young man finally realized that his mother was gone, and, worse, that he'd wasted the last months of her life scribbling numbers on a blackboard and playing minesweeper. Charlie had told him that he'd never had the nerve to speak to Don about that. He'd been convinced that Don was angry about it all and he didn't want to disturb what he saw as a precarious new balance in their relationship.

Rarely had Larry seen anyone so alone. He had taken it upon himself to ensure, when he could, that Charlie had some sort of social life at CalSci, and it had, for the most part worked. Charlie was a respected professor, liked by staff and students alike.

Charlie missing from his office on the heels of saying something to Larry about the FBI meant that Don's brother had called on his expertise. Charlie had to be one of two places: his empty classroom to utilize the huge chalkboards or his brother's FBI office to utilize the white boards.

He turned on his heel and headed down the hall.

He knew Charlie was there before he even reached the room. The sound of chalk on a chalkboard echoed down the empty corridor from the open door, taking on a frantic tone as the click clacks came closer together and were peppered with a stream of words sometimes too soft to hear.

Charlie was in there, and he wasn't having an easy time of it.

Larry stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at what he beheld. Charlie had written on every available surface. Every chalkboard, the walls, the floor, all were covered in his familiar scrawl as, rather than interrupt his thought processes, he had, quite literally, just kept going.

When Charlie finally paused and was about to begin writing on another patch of floor, Larry called to him. "Charles?"

Charlie didn't respond.

Carefully, trying not to smudge any of the chalk markings that covered the floor lest the sight of his work being damaged set Charlie off, Larry stepped closer to Charlie and called out a bit louder.

"Charles?"

The sight of Charlie's face when he finally looked up at his friend made Larry gasp. Crouching down before the younger man, Larry placed a tentative hand on Charlie's shoulder. "What is it?"

Charlie looked both confused and distraught. Chalk dust covered his face and his hair as well as his clothes, and his eyes looked haunted. No equation could cause this, could it?

Charlie looked up at Larry. "It's notadding up, not mathematically, but logicallythe equation isn't workingor maybe I'm crazyfinally fried one too many brain cells" He threw the chalk across the room in disgust.

"You need to give me more data." Keeping it technical, Larry knew from experience, might help Charlie snap back to reality long enough for him to explain himself.

"Don needs thisit's for a case. I found a patternLarry," Charlie exhaled and fastened his eyes on Larry's. "It doesn't make sense. Statistically, it's impossible. I can't even begin to compute" He trailed off and absently rubbed some chalk dust off his hands.

Larry didn't speak, giving the younger man time to work through it in his head.

After a moment, Charlie continued, and, Larry was pleased to note, his voice was slightly calmer. "The pattern of the victims in this particular equationI wish I could tell you everythingthe pattern of victims is not at all random. It's a serial killer with a specific pattern, but the killingsLarry, they're peopleremarkably and astoundingly like people I know."

Larry blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you're saying. You _know_ the victims?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not at all. The victims' backgrounds and experiences, personal information–like age, weight, height, hair color–all closely match people I know well, as well as my family. My father, my brother, my mother, and me"

Larry's eyes widened. "That's not possible, unless the killer knows you or your family. Walk me through it."

Charlie opened his mouth to do just that, but then he shook his head. "I can't. I've told you too much already. I" He stood suddenly. "I need to talk to Don." He looked at the walls and the floors and his eyes widened. "As soon as I clean up this mess."

Larry smiled. "You go. I'll take care of it."

Charlie smiled back. "Thanks, Larry."

Larry watched him go and wished there were a way to make Charlie give up consulting with law enforcement. He believed it was too hard on the younger man, but he knew Charlie would keep doing it in the hopes that he and his brother would grow closer from it.

He shook his head as he looked around the room. He'd need Amita, and maybe a few of Charlie's students to help him with the cleanup.

Charlie was just leaving his building on the CalSci campus when a police car and two dark sedans screeched to a stop in front of it. The sedans seemed official somehow, and, accompanied by the police car as they were, made him stop in his tracks. He wondered if something had happened on the case and looked frantically for Don's familiar face. He didn't see it. Confusion settled in when he also failed to recognize David or Terry. These were men he didn't know.

He flashed back to something his brother had told him, something his mother and father couldn't quite get him to understand when he was a child. Mom and Dad had appealed to Don, knowing that Charlie had, as most young children did, a case of hero worship for his older brother. Don, nearly twelve years old at the time, had sat him down and had told him that this was a serious conversation. He wouldn't let Charlie even hold a pen or a piece of chalk, and, to keep the precocious six-year-old still, Don had held both Charlie's hands by the wrists and had looked him in the eye.

Charlie remembered being scared. Don had never had a serious talk with him before and he wondered if he'd done something wrong. It was when he saw the fear in Don's eyes that his mouth had gone dry and he'd stared in wide-eyed attention at his older brother.

"You're special, Charlie," Don said.

Charlie almost looked away. He was tired of hearing that, but Don shook his wrists and stared him intently in the eye. "You're _special_, Charlie. A lot of people know it now."

It had been in the news that he was what they called a prodigy and a lot of strangers had taken to hanging out nearby. Charlie wasn't allowed out alone anymore, not even to play in the front yard.

He nodded solemnly and stared at his brother.

Don didn't keep him waiting. "Because people know it, there's always a chance that some of them, the bad ones, might try to take you."

Charlie had struggled then. He didn't want to hear this. It was scary.

Don wasn't having any of it, though. "Hey, Charlie, listen to me. You need to hear this." When he had Charlie's full attention, he continued. "You need to be aware of your surroundings. You need to take notice of things like cars or people who don't belong, and how many strangers there are around you, and if they're paying any special attention to you. Can you do that?"

Again Charlie nodded, and, hoping this was over, tried to pull away.

Don didn't loosen his hold. "Charlie, if there are people you don't recognize or feel you don't trust, make sure you stay with the people you do trust. Stay in crowded areas, and, if someone grabs you, scream and yell, but don't just scream and yell. Tell people to call the police. Someone will help you."

Charlie didn't reply for awhile until Don, worried no doubt that his genius brother didn't understand the dangers he might face, shook Charlie slightly. "Charlie? Do you understand?"

Charlie nodded, but Don, unsatisfied, made him repeat that he would always retreat to crowded, populated areas if he felt the slightest bit threatened by a stranger, or even a friend who was acting peculiarly.

Now, seeing these cars, instinct–born from that conversation of a six-year-old Charlie and his nearly twelve-year-old brother–Charlie turned around and headed back toward the math building.

That was when he heard one of the men call his name.

"Dr. Charles Eppes?"

Charlie hesitated but kept walking, talking over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm busy right now. You can make an appointment"

"Federal agents, Dr. Eppes."

That stopped Charlie, and reluctantly he turned around to face the men moving rapidly in his direction. "ID?" He called out still feeling skittish to say the least. He'd seen too much, heard too much, since consulting with Don to accept a stranger's word blindly.

One of the men half smirked and stepped closer to Charlie, who held out an arm effectively stopping the man in his tracks even as Charlie reached for the proffered badge.

He studied it carefully, noting that it was authentic. He'd seen enough of them to know this. He read the name on the ID. "Special Agent Jonathan Pierce." He folded the ID wallet and handed it back summoning a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

Pierce smirked and Charlie felt a swift return of the fear that had only just dissipated.

"Dr. Eppes, please assume the position." He gestured to the wall.

Charlie just stared, but Pierce sighed and explained with exaggerated slowness as though he were sure that Charlie was mentally handicapped rather than being a prodigy and a genius. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent"

Pierce reached for Charlie spinning him around so that he faced the wall. Charlie, confused and not expecting the action, dropped the books and papers he'd been carrying.

"Wait" Charlie was trying desperately to form a question. He grasped feebly at the thought that this must be a joke, even though he was sure no one he'd ever worked with at the Bureau would be so cruel–nor would they risk Don's wrath.

The bite of the cold steel handcuffs around his wrists did something to Charlie. He panicked. Whether because he remembered Don telling him to be careful as a child, or because some piece of him couldn't believe this was real, Charlie began to struggle and to call out for help.

Remembering that his own classroom was nearby, he called loudly for Larry even as he continued to buck and stiffen his body determined that these men, of which there were now six clustered around him, would not have an easy time getting him to a car.

He saw Larry coming out of the door and, seeing Charlie's struggles, came running toward him. Relief flooded through Charlie, and in that moment when his struggles became less frantic, Pierce twisted Charlie's arm so fiercely that the pain caused Charlie to cry out.

Larry approached wearing his no-nonsense professor's scowl, and on his way toward Charlie, grabbed a passing student by the arm and whispered something. The student, taking in that something was going on, nodded and pulled out a cell phone, dialing as he walked away.

Larry bore down on Pierce who held a no longer struggling Charlie. "What's going on?"

Pierce held out his badge. "I'm arresting Mr. Eppes."

Larry waved away the badge as though it were of no consequence. He looked Charlie in the eye, but he saw only fear there. "Charles," he asked softly. "Are you okay."

"Call Don." Charlie whispered, suddenly very still and pale.

Larry nodded and turned to Pierce, gesturing over his shoulder to the student who was still on his cell phone and peering out at the action through the glass doors with a half dozen other students. "I've already called campus security and Special Agent Don Eppes, **_Dr_.** Eppes' brother"

Pierce nodded. "We know who he is, but his presence isn't necessary. I have an arrest warrant, and this man is wanted for questioning."

"Well that may be," Larry admitted knowing he knew little about FBI procedure. "But surely you can wait until Agent Eppes"

Pierce shook his head. "I don't even have to wait for Campus Security." With that, he began to drag a handcuffed and non-combative Charlie to his car.

Larry, worried about the sudden change in his friend, called out encouragement. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Charles!"

Charlie nodded, and Larry was grateful to get that much of a response. Suddenly, Charlie stopped walking and half-turned toward Larry. "My books, Larry"

Larry reached for the things Charlie had dropped, but another agent scooped them up. "Sorry, sir. We need those."

Charlie called out again. "Larry, I have a class at 4:00don't forget, Larry! Four!"

Larry raced over to Pierce suddenly unwilling to let Charlie out of his sight. "I insist you take me with you."

Pierce shook his head. "Sorry, sir. We can't do that."

Larry reluctantly watched as Charlie was bustled into the car. He continued to stare after it, hoping Charlie would turn and face him so he could give him an encouraging smile, but all he saw was a mop of curls diminishing in the distance.

Campus Security had just arrived, so Larry filled them in, then raced to his own car. He would find Don Eppes himself. He would find out just what was going on.

Larry stood before the receptionist's desk and demanded, for the fifth time–and he was counting–to know where Agent Don Eppes was. It infuriated the professor that the young woman merely gestured to the chairs lining the walls once more.

"If you'll have a seat, sir"

"I've been waiting to speak to him for almost an hour!" Larry looked at his watch. He'd have to cancel his next class. No need to call. Every college student knew precisely how long they were required to wait for a professor before walking out.

Frustration over this interminable wait and worry for his friend prompted the usually mild mannered professor to lean menacingly close to the woman, invading her personal space. "Look, I need to speak to him now. I'm not going to wait forever and either you tell me where he is or I will find him myself"

Realization interrupted his sentence and his thoughts. Larry reached for his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts list. Sure enough, the last number on the list was Don's cell. He recalled Charlie giving it to him. It had been Larry's idea. He'd hated Charlie's involvement with the FBI, and had demanded to know Don's number in casehe shook his head. In case what? In case Charlie was arrested on campus and dragged away in handcuffs?

Not caring precisely why he had the number, he only prayed it wasn't an old one long ago replaced. He hit the speed dial and waited.

Don was tired of waiting. He'd been sitting in Kraft's outer office for just over an hour, and the AD was still on the phone. He stood and began pacing, going over his options in his head once more. He wanted to get back to work, but he couldn't leave without finding out just why someone was looking into Charlie's files.

He was about to ask Terry once more to go back without him and see if there had been any new developments when his cell phone rang.

"Eppes."

"Agent Eppes, this is LarryLarry Fleinhardt."

Don's heart skipped a beat and he stopped pacing. Something was wrong. "What's going on? Did something happen to Charlie?"

"Oh, I'd say so! I'm standing by your receptionist's desk, but she won't tell me where you are. I want to know what the hell is going on, and why Charles was dragged off campus in handcuffs!"

"He _what?"_

Larry repeated himself, and Don found himself staggering back at the mental image his mind was building based on the professor's description.

"Okay, wait right there. I'll be right down to talk to you."

He slipped the phone into his pocket and grabbed Terry by the arm dragging her out of the office.

"What?" Terry asked, concern written across her face.

"Charlie's been arrested."

He ignored her disbelief and told him what little he knew. He was going to get to the bottom of this. From the look on Terry's face as he explained everything, he could see that she had the same thought in her mind.

Don stood outside the interrogation area, fury oozing from his every pore. He had called everyone he could think to call. He had tried going through channels, but when Larry, who had attached himself to Terry and Don, had pulled Don aside and told him how frightened Charlie had seemed, how quiet and still he had gone, Don had decided to take the direct approach. Larry had given him the arresting agent's name, and Don had found out where Jonathan Pierce was interrogating his latest suspect.

As he waited, AD Kraft finally made an appearance. Don turned to the man not waiting for an explanation. "How is it that Agent Pierce makes an arrest on _my_ case without consulting me and it just happens to be _my brother_?"

Kraft seemed to hesitate for a moment, but steeled himself for the confrontation. "Calm down, Agent. We have evidence"

"That I should have been shown! It's my case! He's my brother! He has clearance from the NSA"

"Your relationship is why you weren't shown anything." Kraft grabbed Don's arm and pulled him down the hall away from Terry and other agents standing nearby. "You should understand that this has to be above board. If we clear your brother and you're involved in the procedures, it would cast suspicion on the entire Bureau! I want this done quickly. If he's innocent"

Don's eyes widened. "_If_ he's innocentyou've met my brother! You don't really think he's a serial killer!"

Kraft continued as though Don hadn't spoken. "If he's innocent, he's got nothing to worry about, and neither have you."

Don nodded, though he wasn't happy. "I want to see him."

"Agent"

"I want to see him now! I know him. He's not cooperating with you, is he?"

Kraft shifted uncomfortably. "Well, no, he keeps asking for you, and"

Don nodded knowingly. "And scribbling equations or talking mathematics"

Kraft nodded. "Can you get him to cooperate?"

Don considered this. He really wasn't sure. There was a time when he was certain that Charlie would do anything he asked simply because he asked. They'd grown apart when he'd left for Quantico, though Don had sensed a willingness on both sides to rectify that.

"Yes." Don said hoping Charlie was feeling cooperative. "Let me see him."

Kraft gestured to one of his agents and whispered something to him. The man nodded and disappeared inside an interrogation room, leaving the door ajar.

Don was sure Charlie was on the other side of that door and it took all of his will power to remain where he was. If he jumped the gun and moved inside before the AD gave him permission, he could jeopardize this already unorthodox situation. He had to see Charlie, and if that meant being impossibly patient for a few more minutes, he would do it.

At first there was no sound from the room, then an angry voice and the slam of a hand against a desk preceded more angry words. In another moment, Special Agent Pierce stepped out of the room and glared at Don before locking on Kraft.

"Sir?"

"Agent Eppes is going to speak to the prisoner."

Don flinched at the suggestion that Charlie was a prisoner, but otherwise didn't dare move or speak lest this opportunity be taken from him.

"Sir," Agent Pierce began, "I'm handling this. I believe I'm making progress."

Kraft crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Based on what?"

Pierce looked away then back to Kraft. "Based onintuition."

Kraft nodded. "I see. Well, my own intuition is telling me to grant Agent Eppes' request." He turned to Don. "You have five minutes." He glared at Terry as she tried to go with him. "Just Agent Eppes."

Terry nodded and stepped back, though she managed to squeeze Don's arm in silent support.

To Be Continued


	3. part 3

****

Thanks for the reviews! Please keep them coming!

Manipulation part 3

By Ecri

Charlie stared at the table, unsure what was going on. He hadn't heard what that other agent had said to upset Agent Pierce so much, but he was glad when they both left. He hadn't had a minute alone since they had arrested him, and Charlie hoped he could use the time to calm himself.

He still didn't understand what was going on, and he had tried in the beginning to be a bit more cooperative, even waiving the right to call a lawyer. He didn't have one, he didn't know one, and he knew he was innocent. Now he was beginning to think that was a naïve thing to do. He had a sinking feeling Don would be upset with him. He could just hear Don telling him he had no clue how 'the real world' worked.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to call his father. He wanted to see Don, but no matter how many times he asked, they told him Don wasn't available. Did that mean Don couldn't come, or was being prevented from coming? He refused to consider the notion that Don wouldn't come. He would. He repeated it over and over in his mind.

The bottom line was that he hadn't killed anyone. He understood how the FBI might assume he'd committed these crimes, after all he'd just determined that there was a high probability that someone with his background and his experiences might be the killer, but surely they couldn't believe it was actually him. Someone _like _him, certainly

"Charlie?"

Charlie's head snapped up as he saw his brother enter the room and carefully close the door behind him. He leaped from his chair and, in an unusual display for either of them, threw himself at his brother. "Don! I kept askingI'm so glad to see you!"

Don held him tight and that in itself both comforted and frightened Charlie. If it had been a mistake, wouldn't Don have just laughed it off and led him out of the interrogation room?

"It's for real, isn't it?" Realization had hit him hard, but his voice was softer than a whisper.

Don pulled back slightly. "Yeah, Charlie. It is. Sit down. Let me know what's happened."

The brothers sat down, and Charlie gathered his thoughts so he could tell Don precisely when things had gone wrong. He didn't notice Don's gaze taking in every inch of him as if searching for some injury.

"I wasI was working on the equation. I found something! Statistically" Excitedly, his eyes shone as he began to outline what he had discovered.

Don didn't let him continue. "Math later, Charlie. For now, tell me what they've told you."

Charlie shrugged. "I'm under arrest. They think I did it. They think I'm the serial killer. I meanI get why they think that, but there can't be any hard evidence! The equations bear out the logic of it, but I wasn't at any of the crime scenes! I didn't kill anyone! Donny, I couldn't kill anyone!"

Charlie knew his voice had taken on a frantic edge, but rarely in his life had he been so terrified. No, that wasn't entirely true. The other fear he'd learned to live with. He'd just found that this was a different sort of fear. The fear that a six-year-old felt in attending junior highthe fear of a ten-year-old in high schoolthe fear of a sixteen year old trying to teach a college level course in mathematics to students older than he wasthe fear of losing his brother in a firefight

This fear, the one that had gripped his heart as soon as the handcuffs had touched his wrists, this fear was different. It swelled in his belly, squeezed his heart, and lodged in his throat. Perhaps if he'd had numbers on it, statistics on the number of wrongful imprisonments, false arrests, overturned convictions

He swallowed hard and tried to focus on his brotherhis lifelineknow you didn't. Charlie, why don't you have a lawyer in here? If they arrested you, they should have found a lawyer for you."

"I waived" Charlie cut off the rest of the words and blinked at the rage that overtook Don's features. "I'm sorry."

"No, Charlie, don't." Don insisted as he obviously struggled to control his frustration. "I'm going to get you a lawyer. You refuse to answer any questions without one, okay?"

Charlie nodded, but that wasn't good enough for Don. "Charlie? Did you hear me? You won't answer any questions without a lawyer present?"

"Okay."

"Good, now" Don paused in mid-question and grabbed roughly for Charlie's arm. Charlie, confused, followed his gaze, and realized what had drawn his brother's attention. A purple bruise, several inches across—about the width of a man's hand—had begun to appear on his forearm. He pulled his arm away from Don's grip and crossed his arms in front of his chest, effectively hiding it, but Don just reached for it again.

"What happened?"

"It's nothing, Don."

"What happened?" Don's voice had taken on an edge, a growl, a viciousness that Charlie had rarely heard. The first time was in high school. Don, a junior, had come across him in the back of the library being tormented by a senior, who had hit him twice. The bruises were already spectacular when Charlie heard his brother's voice—but _not_ his brother's voice—demanding that the big guy let him go. He did, and Charlie had watched in amazement as Don had immediately pulverized the bigger boy.

"What happened?" Don demanded again.

"Iit was nothing really. When Agent Pierce arrested me, he sort of spun me aroundthat's where he grabbed me"

Don's eyes were wide with rage, and Charlie was infinitely relieved that Agent Pierce was not in the room.

He spoke quietly. "Don, I'm okay."

Don's eyes stared deeply into Charlie's and, finding something there, though Charlie couldn't guess what, he nodded.

"Why do they think you did this?" Don asked.

Charlie explained all he had learned from the equation. "So you see, it's all probability. The victims all resemble—statistically speaking—people I know or have known. It looks like a psychotic genius did this."

"You may be a genius, Charlie, but you're not psychotic."

Charlie nodded, and ducked his head looking down at the table. He didn't want Don to see how scared he was.

Don was quiet for a moment and then Charlie heard a sigh.

"Look at me." Don said. It wasn't a request. When Charlie didn't look up, Don said it again. "Look at me."

Charlie did.

"I'm going to get you out of this. SomehowI'll find out who's really doing it. I promise."

Charlie nodded again. "How are you gonna tell Dad?"

Don shrugged, then smiled. "Maybe I'll let Terry do it."

Charlie laughed. "Listen, if you need a mathematician, you know, to go over anything for you, Larry's really good."

"He doesn't have clearance."

"So get it for him."

Don placed a hand on Charlie's. "If you need anything, you demand to see me, okay. I'll stop by as often as I can, which may not be too often if I'm going to find out who really did this."

"That equation, the next victim will be exactly like the third victim. The one after that will be like the fourth. If I had more data maybe I could narrow things down a bit. I think the killer is probably fixated on somethingactually, I think the killer may be fixated on someone specific."

"Who?"

Charlie hesitated. "You, me, Dad, Mom, Terry, Amita, or Larry."

"Specifically? We're not talking similarities here?"

"No, no similarities. Specifically. This case is much more personal than we thought. I mean, the murders are so preciselyit's scary, Don. The victims could so easily be Dad or youany of us. When I saw the pictures of the first and eighth victims, I thought I was looking at Dad. It shook me up."

"Me, too, Charlie."

The door opened then and Charlie's gaze flew to that side of the room. Agent Pierce stepped inside with AD Kraft. "Your five minutes are up, Agent Eppes. Have you learned anything?"

"Oh, yeah. I've learned a few things. First, he's not speaking to anyone without a lawyer. Second, only an idiot would think he actually did any of this. Third," he gestured to Charlie with one hand, but his eyes never left Pierce as he took several steps toward the other agent until his proximity forced the other man to take a step back. "You _ever_ touch him again, even just to brush a piece of lint off his shirt, and I will take you apart."

Don turned to Charlie, locking eyes with his brother, and didn't move until Charlie nodded to indicate that he was okay. Only then did Don nod in return and step out of the room. That nod, Charlie knew, was a promise that Don would keep him safe.

Looking up at Agent Pierce, Charlie could only hope that Don could keep that promise for both their sakes.

****

March 30 (8 days later)

Alan Eppes loosened his tie as he walked into his house. Charlie's house, he reminded himself. Charlie had bought the house from him just a short time ago, and owning it had suited him. Alan recalled how happy his son had been when they'd signed the papers. Charlie had been trying ever since to make up for all the years he'd spent living free of the worries of room and board, of rent and mortgages, of the usual problems and chores of day to day life. He managed to keep them in groceries, though Alan suspected he just had a standing order at the grocery to be delivered once a week. He had managed to hire a landscaper to come to mow the lawn and keep up the gardens, and he handled the never-ending battle with the recalcitrant furnace.

He still couldn't cook, though he had tried. The chili he'd prepared one evening had Alan and Don choking on water, and Charlie himself throwing it all away and picking up the tab for the takeout to which they'd had to resort. Alan, out of a sense of self-preservation, had reacquired the cooking duties, though Charlie insisted on doing the dishes himself.

Alan threw himself into his favorite chair. Tears threatened, and he wiped them away angrily with the back of his hand. How had things gotten so bad so quickly? When Don had driven over last week to tell him that Charlie had been arrested, Alan's heart had leapt to his throat. It had seemed so surreal. Charliehis babya sweeter, kinder, less violent man you'd be hard pressed to find. Oh, sure, Charlie was no saint, but the sins of being easily drawn into a world of equations and applied mathematics, of being sometimes unable to relate to real life problems because of a fascination with numbers, these things could not compare with murder. How was it possible that the FBI truly believed that his Charlie was a serial killer?

He'd pleaded with Don to find an answer, to shed some light on the problem, and Don had assured his father that sooner or later, the killer would kill again. With Charlie in custody at the time, their case would evaporate. When, after a time, no one was killed, Alan felt his hope turn to something else. He'd watched the news religiously, scanned headlines whenever possible waiting for someone to die. When he realized what he was doing, that he was expecting, almost hoping, that someone else would be murdered, he started to avoid news all together.

The physical evidence had been the clincher.

Somehow, strands of Charlie's hair, a few fingerprints, a few threads of carpet fibers, all had been found at one or another crime scene. Charlie had been stunned.

Alan could still see Charlie's face, the disbelief, as he had been told about that evidence. He'd snorted, halfway believing this had to be a joke, but the reality of it all, the ominous threat of life in prison hanging over him, had robbed him even of that momentary comfort.

Don had assured Charlie, as well as his father, that he would get to the bottom of this. Alan believed his son, but he worried for Don as well. Don was driving himself insane with lack of sleep, with a search for clues that were not there, with a second, third, and fourth look at leads that had dried up weeks ago. Don was slipping away from him just as Charlie was being taken.

Today, at the courthouse, Alan had told Don to behave himself. Don, fury in his eyes when he'd seen Charlie brought to the courtroom in handcuffs, hadn't even acknowledged the request.

The Judge had denied Charlie's bail, and, afterwards, Don had accosted the defense attorney.

"You couldn't get him bail? He's never even had a ticket for jaywalking!"

"Agent Eppes, we're talking about multiple counts of murder, and a connection to the FBI, as well as the history of prodigies being unstable"

"Bullshit!" Don had declared, and Alan had to admit, the same word had been on the tip of his tongue. "Charlie is no more unstable than the judge is!"

Charlie had leaned across the desk then, just as the bailiff came over to lead him away. "Don, please, don't worry about bail. I need you to get the real killer." He'd been dragged away then, and Alan, forced to watch, had felt his heart breaking as he'd only felt it breaking once beforeon the day his wife had died.

Now, he knew only that Don was obsessed. He wanted to catch the real killer, but the FBI resources were closed to him. The FBI, officially, had their killer. A fact they considered well borne out by the fact that the killing had stopped.

The trial was set for a month from now. It was as speedy as the law allowed, and, in truth, was speedier than the defense attorney had wanted. A month was a long time to be sitting in prison for a crime—crimes—you hadn't committed. It was a short time to prepare a case to defend a man who hadn't committed a crime, but against whom the evidence was staggering.

A month. That was all the time his boys had.

Alan's biggest fear back when Charlie and Don had begun to work together was that they would be unable to forge a compatible working relationship. Now, his biggest fear was that in losing one son, he would lose the other.

Agent Terry Lake turned expectantly in the direction of the door as Don entered the office. Once again, scowl firmly in place, he listened with half an ear to the updates on the cases his team was working on and gave a few half-hearted instructions before taking his seat.

He was staring at a photo on the corner of his desk, and, though Terry couldn't see it from this angle, she knew the photo. It was a picture of Don and Charlie. The two brothers hadn't always gotten along, hadn't always seen eye to eye, but in this photo, they were laughing. They were laughing so hard they had to hold on to each other to keep upright. Even thinking about that picture, about the day it was taken made her smile.

It hadn't been that long ago, but now it seemed a lifetime away. It was the day after one of their first cases together, when Don and Charlie were still learning how to work together but had discovered that they did indeed have some sort of rapport. The relief of having caught a killer, the relief—and Terry had seen this clearly—of having rekindled a relationship with each other had led to a sort of giddy release. As can only happen with family or with close friends, Don and Charlie had begun to laugh at everything and nothing.

Before long, they could barely breathe through the laughter.

Terry, who didn't usually have a camera with her, happened to have one that day. She'd snapped several shots and had given one copy of the best one—framed—to each brother. She had hoped it would help them see all the potential in their relationship.

She had been with Don at Quantico, and she had learned about his family from him, from what he didn't say to her as much as from what he did say. She had seen in his eyes, on the rare occasions when he'd let his guard down, how much he wanted to understand his brother, how much he wished he and Charlie could enjoy a closer, more affectionate and less competitive relationship. Terry had told him to be patient back then, on that date in the laundromat over pizza. She could see so much in Don back then. She still did, but the recent pain of losing his mother, of not understanding his brother's reaction to the illness, it had taken a toll.

When they had first met, he'd been on guard all the time. After awhile, perhaps because there was some distance between him and the problems of dealing with a genius in the family, perhaps because of something else—something he had found briefly with Terry—Don had begun to laugh easier, smile quicker. Now, the reticence was back. The brooding, introspection, and silence were back.

She stood and moved around to perch on the corner of his desk. "Don?"

It took a moment, but he looked up at her. She wanted to tell him they would work it out, but she knew that he could see that much in her eyes. She laid a hand across the back of his where it rested on the desk.

He moved his hand just enough so that he could take hold of hers and give it a squeeze and offered her a melancholy sort of half-smile.

"I'm not on the case. There _is_ no case. As far as the Bureau is concerned Charlie" he choked on the name. "Charlie is their killer."

Terry nodded. "I know, but we've been working on that."

He looked up at her, his confusion plain. "What?"

She smiled and slid off the desk. "Come by my place tonight. Pizza."

She knew that he could see there was more behind that innocuous offer, and she gave him the slightest of nods to confirm it.

"I'll be there."

She returned to her desk knowing that when he did come by he'd either be overjoyed at what she had done or mad as hell. Or maybe he'd be both.

Terry hadn't been this nervous about Don coming to her apartment since they had first dated. It was, most likely, she was sure, Don's reaction to what she intended to show him that had her crawling the walls.

She had already ordered the pizza, with Don's favorite toppings, and now was wondering if it would arrive before he would. She had it in the back of her head that he would decide at the last minute to stay with Alan. Not that she could fault him for that. She really couldn't. She was just about to call him, when the doorbell rang.

She opened the door, money in hand to pay the pizza man, but was greeted instead by Don. "Oh." She couldn't keep her surprise from that small sound.

Don grinned. "A tip? I didn't even come in yet."

She gave him a crooked grin and drew back her hand before he could snatch the cash from her. "Nice try. I thought you were the pizza."

They stepped back into the room, and Don hung his coat on the coat rack.

"Can I get you something to drink? Soda, coffee, beer?"

"Beer."

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two opened bottles.

He took the one she offered and than took a long drag nodding in appreciation. "Nothing like a cold one."

Terry nodded, though such talk was not something Don usually indulged in.

"I'm glad you could come."

"I'm glad you asked me."

She gestured to the sofa and they sat. "Don," She began only to be interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. She laughed. "That must be the pizza."

In moments, they were again sitting on the sofa, this time with the open pizza box spread out on the coffee table and a paper plate with a cooling slice in front of each of them.

"Don," she began again.

He smiled. "Whatever it is, just get it out."

"We're behind you. Me, David, the rest of the team" She inhaled hoping a deep calming breath would make this next part easier. "We've got something to show you." She stood and moved around behind the sofa bringing forward a large cardboard box of the kind usually used to archive old cases. She slid it across the floor in his direction.

"What is this?"

She stood there before him, a little jittery. "It's everything." She threw her arms out from her sides presumable encompassing 'everything' in the gesture. "Interviews, transcripts of phone calls, lists of contacts, every possible leadit's Charlie's case." She shook her head at the insensitivity of calling it that, but plunged ahead. "It's everything we had before Pierce arrested Charlie, and it's everything Pierce had that led him to Charlie. There's also about a dozen leads David and I have been following up since Charlie's arrest" She stopped babbling, needing now to know how he was taking this.

He stared at the box, then began to rifle through it randomly reading whatever struck him. "It ishow did you"

She smiled. "Xerox, tiny little spy cameraswhatever we needednone of us believe it was Charlie. We're all willing to keep looking. We've got a schedule. Everyone is volunteering during their off hours. We're gonna find out who really did this. We'll get Charlie exonerated."

Don stared at Terry for a moment, and Terry, unable to take it anymore, finally asked him. "Sowhat do you think?"

"What do I" He stood and crossed the small space that separated them. "Thank you." He whispered in her ear. "I never could have done this much alone. Thank you." The second time he said it, she felt hot tears on her neck. She rubbed soothing circles on his back and held on as tightly as she could. "You're not alone." She told him. "Never alone."

"Charlie is."

His whisper was full of heartache, and Terry, having no way to deny that Charlie, sweet, unprepared, trusting, Charlie was now alone in a prison cell facing who knew what.

****

March 31

Larry stared at the contents of Charlie's office. The Dean had insisted that he clean it out, and Larry, though he'd argued that Charlie had been wrongfully accused, had had to agree. He preferred to do it himself rather than allow Security to handle Charlie's work. At least Larry would be able to sort out the projects so things would be relatively easy to put back in order when Charlie returned.

It had been heartbreaking in the courthouse. He'd been sure that Charlie would be out on bail based on the testimonials and the character witnesses—of which he had been one. He recalled the look on Charlie's face when the judge had denied bail. It had been an odd sort of resignation mingled with a fear of what he might face. For all that people thought Charlie was sheltered, unaware of life outside of the walls of Academia, Larry knew something they did not. Charlie understood life outside of the University all too well. He'd been consulting with law enforcement agencies for years. He'd seen things only Federal Agents or local law enforcement should see. He knew the odds for every hardship that might befall him while he was incarcerated, and Larry had seen that knowledge, carefully buried behind the resignation he'd preferred his family to see.

"Oh, Charles," Larry whispered as he continued to box up his friends belongings. Amita was grading the outstanding papers and Larry himself had insisted on taking on Charlie's classes. With Amita grading papers, and Larry giving lectures, they might be able to keep the classes from disintegrating before Charlie returned.

"You'll be back, my friend." He whispered these words, which had become like a mantra for him, and he vowed that he would do everything he could to insure that Charlie had a job to come back to.

Amita finished grading the last of Charlie's students' tests and capped her pen. Technically speaking, Charlie was now supposed to record the grades and return them to the students. She'd have to talk to Larry about that.

She was furious with the FBI for what she could only call their stupidity. How they could think that Charlie had done it was baffling. Baffling was also a good word to describe how the physical evidence had gotten to the crime scenes, not to mention why there appeared to have been a second investigation going on concurrently with Don's. It smelled like a setup to her.

Charlie had been imprisoned for a short time, but it seemed like forever to her. She had become accustomed to seeing him every day. She had enjoyed sharing time with him that no one else shared. She knew she wasn't supposed to get so close to him. She knew it was against the rules. He was, after all, her thesis advisor.

Of course, Charlie had never asked her out. She could be wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't attracted to her. She considered the aftermath of the train wreck case and realized that she really couldn't believe that anymore. Charlie was at least mildly interested. Most likely he wasn't sure about how she felt. Perhaps she had to give him a clearer signal.

Amita almost laughed at herself. Bad timing all around. She hadn't seen him in so long, and she had to assume he wouldn't want to see her while he was in prison. There was also the likelihood that she would be assigned another thesis advisor if he weren't released soon.

She would have no opportunity to give him a signal of any kind.

She'd thought they had all the time in the world, and now, it looked like they didn't have any at all.

To Be Continued


	4. part 4

****

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Manipulation part 4

By Ecri

April 2

Alan found it hard to believe that so many of Don's friends believed in Charlie, and in Don, for that matter, so much that they had managed to do all this in so short a time. Don's apartment had been turned into some sort of base of operations. He'd refused to let Terry keep the illegally obtained FBI files on her own property, so he'd had it moved to his own. A large folding table, a map of the city, several corkboards with photographs that Alan would prefer not to look at littered the rooms.

Alan, whom Don had been loathe to involve in all of this, had insisted he would be better off helping in his own limited capacity than in sitting alone in hisin Charlie's house counting the days until the trial.

Alan stopped by the jail every day to see his son, but Don, unable to get away, hadn't been by. Alan could tell that Charlie was hurt, but his youngest son's most recent words to him on the topic had left him unwilling to let another day go by without forcing Don to see his brother.

"Charlie, Don's just busy."

Charlie had nodded, still trying in vain to hide the haunted look in his eyes. He'd whispered something, and Alan had had to force him to repeat it.

"It's no more than I deserve. Instant Karma as the song goes. I wouldn't see Mom when she was dying. Now Don won't see me" His voice had cracked then, and he wouldn't say anything more on the subject.

Alan was waiting for Don to get back from the office. Since Charlie's bail had been denied, Don had been unwilling to stay late at the office as often as he had before this. He was usually home by 6:30 with deli, pizza, or Chinese to feed whoever was still working at his apartment and ready to dive into the grunt work himself.

Now, at 7:40 PM, Alan was beginning to worry. Don should have called, but Alan wasn't about to call him. It would be embarrassing for his grown son if his father to called him to ask why he wasn't home yet.

Just then, Don came in the door, a sack of deli sandwiches in his arms. He placed the food on the kitchen table, admonishing those present to take advantage of it. Seeing Alan standing, staring at him expectantly, he went to his father's side. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm worried about"

"I know. Charlie"

"Not about Charliewell, yes, about Charlie, but about you, too."

"Me?"

"Don't give me that innocent routine. You don't sleep. You barely eat. You're going to wear yourself out, and we can't afford that now. **_I_** can't afford that now." He paused. Would now be the best time or should he wait? He shrugged. It likely didn't matter. There was no good time to tell Don to go and see his brother.

"Don, Charliehe needs to see you."

Don's head snapped up from the file he'd picked up. "Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words"

"Then don't worry about it. I'm busy trying to clear him. He understands."

"What he understands is that this is some great karmic comeuppance. He thinks you won't see him now because he wouldn't see your mother when she was sick."

Don blinked rapidly unable to process that information. "He said that."

"Yes! He did. Don, he needs you. This is hard for him"

"It's no picnic for me, you know!"

Alan inhaled slowly trying to keep his own temper from flaring. "I didn't mean to imply that it was. Don, go to him. See him. Let him know you haven't given up."

"He couldn't think that."

"I told him you would do what you can, but I don't think he thinks there's much you can do." Alan sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. To see Charlie like that, alone and in prison "This is breaking my heart, Don." Even as he spoke the words, it was as if someone else was saying them. He'd never said anything like this, but then, his emotions had been near the surface since his wifehe suddenly couldn't think of her without envisioning what she would say, how she would feel if she were alive to see all of this. "If your mother were alive" He got no further. The anguish of the last few days collided headlong with the absence that even now, a year after her death, could bring Alan to his knees on a good day. This wasn't a good day.

Don embraced his father. "It's okay, Dad. I'll go. I'll talk to Charlie. I've got it. I promise."

Even with his son's caring words and warm embrace, it took Alan some time to calm himself. "Thank you, Don," was all he managed to say.

Don nodded and grabbed his coat. He found Terry and told her he was going to see Charlie.

"Visiting hours are"

"I don't give a damn about that."

Charlie sat in his bunk, staring at the sagging mattress above him. He wasn't tired. He rarely slept what people would call normal hours anyway, and his pent up energy was driving him crazy. He wanted a pen or a pencil, chalk, anything to write with. He'd scribble the equations on the wall if he needed to, but he had to have something to write with.

The man above him was awaiting trial, which was scheduled to begin a week before Charlie's. He was in for murder, too. _Too._ Charlie almost laughed at himself. It was as if they had him believing he'd done it. If he believed it, wouldn't a jury? No! He had to stop thinking like that. He wasn't guilty. He wasn't insane.

Then why was he locked up with murderers?

He shifted in his bed once more and apparently had shifted too roughly. His cellmate was suddenly hanging down from the bunk staring Charlie in the eye. "I though I told you I was a light sleeper. Don't move while I'm trying to sleep."

"Sorry." Charlie did his best not to appear frightened, but to a mathematics genius who'd grown up the target of every bully in the Los Angeles area, this was a living nightmare.

Somehow, he must have offended the man because one large hand reached down for Charlie who tried to scuttle backward out of the man's reach. It was then that the guard appeared in the doorway. "Eppes."

Charlie looked up in surprise. "Yes?" He was relieved to see the guard because his cellmate always backed off when a guard was in the room.

"You've got a visitor."

Rather than argue that it was well past the time, Charlie gratefully got off the bunk and moved to the door. The guard slid it open and ushered Charlie out slamming the door behind him.

Charlie didn't spare a glance for the other man in his cell. He would either be asleep when Charlie got back or he would be awake hoping for a chance to play some racquetball with Charlie as the ball.

He walked ahead of the guard who leaned in close to whisper in Charlie's ear. "Your FBI connections may get you off-hours visitors, but there's no chance they'll save you. You are a sick bastard. All serial killers are"

Charlie didn't listen. He couldn't. It was a scenario the prosecuting attorney would most likely enjoy spinning, but Charlie couldn't counter it here. He wasn't in a position to do much except to accept what people would say and what they would do. He focused on the visitor. His father had already been by today, so maybe it was his lawyer. Maybe he had some questions that couldn't wait. Who else, after all, would bend the rules like this just to see him?

The guard led him to a small room. It wasn't the communal visitors room with the plexiglass partitions and the telephones that Charlie usually used. This was a private room usually reserved for lawyer consultations. He was led to a chair, a chain fed through a metal circle welded into the table and attached to the handcuffs at his wrists. Then he waited. It took less than a minute for the door to open again.

Charlie, expecting to see his lawyer, was astonished to see

"Don?"

Don nodded and took a seat. Charlie could see his brother's Adam's apple bob up and down rapidly as he swallowed repeatedly. He saw then that he had been right. He had told his father that Don hadn't come to see him because it was some sort of payback for him not seeing his mother. This was proof. Don couldn't stand to see him, just like he couldn't stand to see his mother dying.

He pasted a smile on his face. He would make this as easy on Don as he could.

"Charlie, I'm sorry to pull you out after lights out"

"No trouble. What's up? Did my lawyer send you?"

Don shook his head. "No. I needed to see you. I spoke to Dad today."

Charlie swallowed and looked away. He should have realized that his father would tell Don.

"Charlie, I don't want you thinking like that. I've been busy trying to solve the case. I'm trying to find the real killer. I'm trying to figure out who might have done this so I can present a reasonable doubt or, preferably, get the charges against you dropped."

Charlie nodded. "I know. I get it. It's your P versus NP."

"Charlie! No! It's not. First of all, mine isn't unsolvable"

Charlie waved away the words. "It's okay, Don. Listen, that equationthe next victim"

"There hasn't been a next victim."

"What?"

"There hasn't been a next victim since you've been under arrest. I have to say, that alone is going a long way to proving Pierce's case."

Charlie shook his head. The equation morphed in his mind and numbers coalesced only to be disregarded. "That puts a new spin on it."

"It does?"

Charlie nodded. "It's a new variable. It alters the data set. The motive hinges on being able to blame me for the murders. If I'm in prison and they continue, it's as good as the killer saying 'hey, you got the wrong guy.' He wouldn't want that."

Don leaned closer. "So it's someone you know?"

"Not necessarily. It's" he shook his head. "There are too many variables, and I don't have a pencilI needI can't writeI haven't" His hands were trembling and he never realized it until Don reached forward and took them both in his own.

"Charlie, it's okay. I'm gonna figure it out. I'm a pretty good detective."

Charlie shook his head and let his own admiration and love for his big brother show through his eyes. "No, you're the best detective."

Don's eyes widened, and Charlie couldn't help but wonder if it was because of the faith Charlie had in him. He smiled and leaned closer to Don. "You are, you know. II know you'll figure this out."

It was then that the door to the room opened again and Charlie shuddered involuntarily. He'd have to go back now. He'd have to leave Don and return to that dark cell with no way to get the numbers that raced around in his mind out of his head and onto paper or a wall or anywhere but in his head.

Afraid, he wouldn't take his eyes off his brother. "I'm okay, Don. Really. Just, don't stay away too longplease." His embarrassment at that little fumble at the end of that sentence evaporated when Don stood and embraced him.

"It's going to be okay, Charlie. I'm not going to let them convict you. I know you're innocent."

Charlie turned his head away so Don wouldn't see the tears standing in his eyes. He nodded his head, and intended to leave like that, but then he realized that he had to see Don once more before he left. His head snapped up to find Don still staring at him, his own eyes mirroring the emotion in Charlie's.

He offered a small smile, which Don returned, and then the door closed and he was walking toward his cell again.

If the guard said anything on the way back, Charlie's racing mind didn't register it. He entered his cell, and, rather than slip into his bunk and risk waking his cellmate, he slid bonelessly down the wall and tried to make himself comfortable on the floor. The chill of the concrete soon set him shivering, and Charlie held tightly to the equations racing through his head.

Don watched Charlie being led away. It was more than he could stand. The look on his little brother's face had changed from despair to hopefulness to complete faith in Don. He wouldn't let his brother down. He might not have been the best brother. He might not have been there every time Charlie had needed him in the past, but this would be different. He wouldn't fail Charlie this time.

He raced out of the room and headed home. There was a lot to do.

Upon reaching his apartment, he fell into analyzing some of the evidence that had led Pierce to arrest Charlie. He'd been at it for hours and hadn't even noticed that everyone had cleared out for the night. Alone on his sofa he continued to read. He'd been over it all a thousand times already, but something kept bringing him back to it. Pierce had brought in another mathematics professor to consult on the case behind Don's back. Why had that been approved? Who at the Bureau doubted his abilities so much that they'd have done this?

It struck him then, in the paranoia that this case had brought out in him, that perhaps this was an elaborate case of revenge. Could someone have gone through all of this, the murders, the frame, in order to get at him? To prove Don was depending too much on Charlie? To prove that Don could be deceived by his brother?

It was ludicrous, but if that weren't the case, then what else could it be? Something inside Don, the instincts he'd honed over the years, insisted that all of this was not just coincidence. Was Pierce in someone's pocket? Had Pierce been manipulated or had he done the manipulating? Was Pierce a pawn or was he the mastermind? If he was the mastermind, then what was his beef against Charlie or against him? If he was the pawn, then who was moving the pieces around the board?

Frustration took hold and Don shot out of his seat. He had to move. He had to walk. He recalled Charlie's frustration at not having a way to write, to get the equations out of his head

__

Sometimes I can't choose what I work on. Sometimes I have to work on what's in my head.

Don had a feeling that Charlie knew more than he was telling. Maybe he was still working something out, maybe the incarceration was making it impossible for him to work, was stifling his genius, but there was definitely more.

"What's in your head, Charlie?" _And how can I get it out?_

****

April 3

Charlie had found a way to cope. It had come to him with no thought at all, and he really hadn't questioned it. With each passing moment, he immersed himself in numbers. It had taken some calculating, and one portion of his brain recognized that he had often done this without realizing it, but now, it had reached an entirely different level. Now the calculations were there, always there, literally just under the surface. At times, he found himself mumbling them aloud in answer to questions, or in response to insults, jibes, and, on occasion, physical attack.

He knew he had always been an easy target. Bullies had taken to beating him. Professors, disliking him because of his youth, tried to discredit him, or to make him appear foolish. Even other serious students, perhaps jealous, and perhaps something else, had never quite warmed up to him.

People never liked what they didn't understand, and Charlie Eppes knew that few could truly understand him. That was what had sent him into the garage scribbling madly on chalkboards as his mother lay gasping out her last breath. The realization that the one person on the planet who understood him completely was leaving him had stolen his reason.

Charlie knew his father and brother loved him, and, in many ways, they understood him, certainly better than any one alive today. But his relationship with his mother had been unique. He'd recognized it and she had as well. That must have been why she had spent so many years telling him to make friends, to find people with whom he could share his life.

His current coping mechanism, born of an inability to retreat into P versus NP since he was expected, forced, to interact with his fellow detainees, had multiplied. He laughed to himself at that thought. Multiplied! He was finding many of his own private thoughts rather amusing these days. He would laugh sometimes in the middle of the night, upsetting his cellmate. He would laugh spontaneously at lunch, irritating those around him who thought he was laughing at them.

He could not explain that he hadn't been listening to their conversations, that his laughter had stemmed from some internal dialogue, so the numbers had begun to spill from his mouth. Sometimes, in panic, he would speak them quickly, almost breathlessly. Sometimes, in confusion, he would speak them slowly and carefully.

Sometimes, he just spoke them, mumbled them, clung to them, like a lifeline. He wanted to write them down. He wanted to work through them, but denied that chance, he continued to speak them.

****

April 7

Larry left the door to his own classroom open as an invitation to the students he knew would be passing by in a moment and peeking tentatively through it to see if he were still around. His own class, having just been dismissed, had wasted no time departing, and he had long ago stopped wondering why so few students remained behind to speak to him about his lecture topics. Charlie's students—even students who didn't have a long and abiding interest in math—always seemed to do that.

He remembered his own surprise whenever some exceptional student did find his lecture's fascinating. He recalled one student in particular who had been much too young to attend University. He had been too young to understand advanced physics. Larry remembered him, though. Shy to a fault, the uncertainty of his youth had been beaten aside by his curiosity and his unquenchable thirst to understand. With dark curly hair, lopsided grin and the spark of genius in his eyes, the student had been disarming and exceptional even among exceptional students. The student, one who had just joined his class, had asked so many questions that both professor and student had missed their next classes.

From that meeting, a friendship had been born.

Larry sighed as the reality of where Charlie was right now hit him in the gut. He lingered over erasing the blackboard. He knew that Charlie's class was being covered two doors down. Some of the students had taken to learning Larry's schedule, knowing he and Charlie were friends. Several of them who felt particularly enamored of the young, vibrant professor often came by after class to ask after him.

He heard someone clear his throat, a more mature sound than he was used to from the students, and turned toward the door. Surprise kept him mute for a moment, but he wrestled control of his vocal chords and stepped toward the doorway his hand outstretched.

"Don. It's good to see you. How's Charlie? How's your father? How are you holding up?"

Don smiled at the questions.

"Choose any one of them." Larry advised.

"Charlie's holding up. So's Dad." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look," he gestured toward the other students in the room. "Can we talk?"

"If it's about Charlie, these are some of his students"

"Well, it is, but this is classified."

Larry smiled. "Then you shouldn't be talking to me. I don't have clearance."

Don's voice dropped to a whisper. "Larry, I need to know what was going on in Charlie's head. I need to know how far he got with the equation and if it can shed any light on any of this" he hesitated. "I don't think he's finding it very easy to workinside."

Larry nodded. "Well, you came at the right time." Larry gestured to the handful of students, which included Amita. "These students have been spending the last few days reconstructing Charlie's work."

Don looked at them all. "They have?"

Larry reached for a notebook he'd left on the corner of his desk and flipped it open. "I won't pretend I know precisely how far he'd gotten, but I did catch a glimpse of his work. We used some basic mathematics as a starting point, andwell, I won't pretend that our answer is as elegant as Charlie's or even that I was able to accurately reconstruct every nuance of his thought processes. I'm a physicist, not a mathematician, and even as such, I wouldn't dare to assume that I was half as good at this as he is. I will admit, though, that we have come a long way in three days."

Larry and the students excitedly brought Don up to date on the work, and Larry was pleased that Don was trying so hard to follow it all. Every so often, when one of the students would slip into a purely mathematical language, Don would lose the train of thought and look to Larry for help. Larry shrugged the fifth time that happened. "What can I say? You remind them of him."

"I do?"

Larry nodded, but didn't elaborate.

It was in the middle of Larry's explanation that Don's phone rang. He checked the caller ID and frowned. Larry watched as Don flipped the phone open and spoke. "Eppes."

Larry noticed how Don straightened and held up a hand asking the kids to be quiet. "You've got my attention."

Larry wished he could hear both sides of this conversation.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Don asked the caller. He looked at his watch. "I'll be there." He flipped the phone shut and turned to Larry. "Thanks for everything. Please keep working on it."

He turned and was halfway to the door before Larry called out to him. "Wait! Who was that?"

"Someone who claims they have evidence that can free Charlie."

Larry watched the man go, and turned back to his students. "In case that washes out, we should keep working."

They all set to work, though with a new excitement. It was possible that Don was going to find the last bit of data, or, Larry couldn't help hoping, someone was going to confess.

Don stood in the appointed spot at the appointed time, examining every stranger in the vicinity wondering who he was meeting and what he would learn. The man on the phone had been adamant that he come alone and not bring the police. If this had been a hostage situation he'd never have agreed to it, but this was different. No one was holding Charlie as a bargaining chip. Charlie was in jail. This informant had some way to clear his name. That made him, at best, a snitch. Don was fine with that. He even had a bit of cash as well as his checkbook in case the guy wanted to be paid.

He'd do whatever it took to free Charlie.

He wasn't so lost in thought that he didn't see the man coming toward him and recognize him as the man he was to meet. He couldn't have said why or how he recognized a man he'd never met and had spoken to by phone only once, but he could. Perhaps it was instinct. He'd go with that explanation for now.

The man wasn't what he would have expected. He was dressed in a fine, expensive suit. His hair was neat and tidy, his shoes, shiny, and his watch a Rolex. This wasn't your run of the mill informant.

"Special Agent Donald Eppes." The man said, and, Don noted, it wasn't a question.

Don nodded. "And you are?"

"Here about Charlie."

Don nodded again. "We'll play it your way for now. What do you know?"

"Oh, we'll play it my way or not at all, Agent Eppes. I know everything."

"Would you elaborate on that?"

"Certainly. I arranged all of this. I planted the physical evidence"

"Hair, fingerprints, and carpet fibers?"

"Easily obtained from every day items and easily planted wherever I please. Don't interrupt again. Charlie's life depends on it."

"You make it sound like you're holding him somewhere. He's in prison."

"Ah, yes, well, in a sense, I can reach him wherever he is. Prison is actually easier than most would think." He straightened his cuff and checked his watch. "What you need to know is that I set him up, and I can clear him. In order for me to do that, however, I need you to do something for me."

"And what is that?"

"I need you to work for me."

"I don't understand."

"I need you to work for me. Pass along information that I can use. Tell me what the FBI has on me and my associatesperhaps orchestrate an arrest, or bumble an arrest if I need someone kept out of jailuse excessive force on someone I need eliminatedI need you in my pocket for the rest of your career."

Don shook his head. This guy had to be a megalomaniac. "What makes you think I would ever do those things?"

The man smiled, a death's head smile that sent chill's down Don's spine. "Because I hold Charlie's fate in my hands."

Don felt his pulse rate increase. There was something too slick about this guy. Something too smooth, and yet he seemed to be telling the truth or at least he believed he was telling the truth. "His fateI don't understand. You said on the phone that you had evidence"

"I said I had information. The information is this: I did this to him. I wanted your attention and I got it. If you do as I say, Charlie's trial will be swift and he will be exonerated. If you do not, well, then Charlie better get used to small spaces and communal showers, and if you do anything that leads to me being incarcerated, Charlie's life is forfeit."

Don shook his head incredulously. There was no way this man could mean what he said, and yet, he seemed so self-possessed, so calm about these details. "What if I don't believe you?"

The man smiled. "I thought you might take some convincing. It's quite all right. In this day and age, we must be certain of the characters with whom we enter into a business transaction. I want you to leave here right now and go and visit Charlie. Just go and see him. You will learn that I am to be believed. I will call you tomorrow at noon."

The man turned and walked calmly away from Don. Don's heart was racing. It was inconceivable that anything the man had said was remotely true, and yetDon raced for his car, and, setting sirens blaring, barreled down the streets of LA.

To Be Continued


	5. Part 5

****

I'm sorry for the delay. I rewrote a good bit of the beginning and then panicked that I'd lost the emotion I was trying to create. I'm calm enough now to post, so be gentle! Many thanks to M. Marchand and especially to Xanthia Morgan for comments and encouragement.

Manipulation Part 5

****

By Ecri

Don skidded to a stop, throwing the car into park, and bounding toward the prison doors leaving the car door swinging open. He waved his badge around at the guards, using his position as an FBI agent to intimidate and infiltrate. He didn't stop moving. He walked purposely and quickly, If stopped by a guard, he continued to make demands, pacing, waving his arms, his badge, doing whatever he needed to do to see his brother and prove to himself that the calm, collected man he'd met had no power to hurt his brother.

Waiting for the room to be prepared, for Charlie to be brought to him didn't still his perpetual motion. He prowled the hallway like a tormented tiger ready to leap through the door to the private room. He'd told himself again and again that there was nothing to worry about, that Charlie was safe, but he knew it didn't matter what his intellect told him. He had to see Charlie.

Regulations required that Charlie be brought in first and 'secured' before Don was allowed to enter. He'd had to pull strings to get the private room, but he had made it here in time for regularly scheduled visiting hours.

At some unseen signal, the guard standing with him opened the door and gestured for Don to enter. The moment that Don bolted through the door, his complete attention was fastened on his brother.

Charlie looked expectantly up at him, and Don heard his brother mumbling a string of numbers under his breath. It stopped as soon as Charlie recognized him, which, Don noted, had taken a split second longer than it should have.

He sat down across from his brother. Charlie looked unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Charlie."

Charlie smiled tentatively. "I'm glad to see you, too, Don."

Don grinned in response, but wondered at his brother's reticence. He looked Charlie over once more pleased at the lack of injury. The man must have been lying. "You wouldn't believe the day I had."

"Me, too." Charlie whispered as his gaze fell to the tabletop leaving Don staring at a mop of curls.

Don's heart skipped a beat. He'd heard something in that tone, something that Charlie had undoubtedly not meant to let slip. "What happened?"

Charlie shook his head, the smile returning as he tried to brush aside the question. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine."

Something instinctual kicked in and Don was never more certain that his brother was lying. He walked around the table and knelt by Charlie's side, his eyes scanning his little brother for hidden injuries. His eyes fell immediately on Charlie's left arm, encased in a plaster cast, which his brother was holding hidden under the table.

"What happened?" He asked again, his tone demanding an answer though hovering just below fury.

Charlie, seeing he couldn't hide it any longer, stopped trying. "It's nothing, Don."

Don exploded. "It's not nothing! It's most definitely not nothing!"

"Don, please"

"How did this happen?"

"Iwould really rather not"

Don's anger abruptly burned out, and when he spoke his brother's name, it was little more than a whisper pleading for answers. "Charlie"

Charlie, startled by the change in his brother, caved. He spoke quickly "I'd really rather not, Don. It's justit happens. I haven't worked out the rules yet, Ican we just drop it? I'm okay. Really. It's just a fractured wrist."

"Just a" Don took a deep breath to keep from exploding. It wouldn't do Charlie any good to have him waste what precious time they had screaming about something he could no longer prevent. "Are you okay otherwise?"

When Charlie didn't answer right away, Don felt his fury swell. "Tell me."

Charlie didn't look up. "Just a bruised rib, Don. That's all. I swear."

Don believed him, but his concern for his brother's well being wouldn't leave it at that. He placed a hand on Charlie's knee, hoping to offer some small comfort. "Charlie, are you sure there's nothing else you need to tell me?"

"I'm sure, Don. I'm okay. The doctor is letting me spend the night in the infirmary anyway. I'm supposed to go straight back there after you leave."

Charlie sounded relieved to Don, and that set off alarm bells for him. If Charlie was glad to be spending time in the infirmary, could mean something was going on in his cell that Charlie wanted to escape. He'd have to follow up on that later.

"Charlie, this is important. I can't help you if you keep things from me. You have to tell me what's going on with you while you're in here, okay?"

Don watched Charlie's face for some sign that he was still trying keep something from him. He'd learned long ago how to read that much in his brother's expressive face. To his relief, honesty, and perhaps fear, won the day.

"I told you everything. It happens. I'm all right."

Don wasn't pleased at the defeated look in his brother's eyes, or the slump of his shoulders. Not that he imagined he'd hold up better if the situation were reversed. Charlie looked exhausted, and Don was sure, though it was partly physical, that the mental strain of being herein jailwas taking a toll. "I should go. I bet you need a good night's sleep"

Charlie shook his head waving away the words. "I _can't_ sleepI'm a chronic insomniacespecially when there are numbers running through my head. I needI need paper and a pen or pencilssomething." Charlie brought his right hand up to his head, and tapped his temple. "There's too much in there. I haveto get it outI have to get it _out_"

His eyes brimmed with tears that refused to fall. "The numbers are in thereI have to get them out" He kept tapping at his temple using the action as though to underscore his words as he spoke. The jabs came quicker and with more energy as though that might get the numbers and equations to spill out of his head and give him some relief. In another moment, he was speaking them again, rocking back and forth as they spilled involuntarily from his mouth in a soft, almost unconscious whisper.

Don took his brother's hands and held them. "Shhh. Charlie, it's okay," he whispered.

Charlie, turning his tear-filled eyes on his brother, finally let go. Sobbing into Don's shoulder, he finally released the fear and anguish that had been with him the moment he'd seen Agent Pierce on Campus.

Don held his brother, rocking him, soothing him with the nonsense sounds that people resort to when a child cries. It was as he rocked and as he whispered in Charlie's ear for the umpteenth time that everything would be okay, that he realized that Charlie was clinging to him much as he had done when they'd been children. In a dizzying moment of déjà vu, Don tightened his grip to equal his brother's as past and present juxtaposed themselves over his thoughts. The memory played itself out. Charlie's grip gradually relaxed, and his tears gradually subsided.

Charlie, once he was all cried out, tried to brush off his breakdown. "I'm sorry, Don."

Don shook his head. "No apologies, Charlie, not when you're in here." His voice was a whisper, and he didn't raise it at all as he continued. "You have to promise me that while you're in here, you'll always tell me when you need something, or if someone is mistreating you. I need to know, Charlie, or I can't protect you."

Charlie nodded, but Don saw the doubt in his eyes and it hurt him.

Charlie must have seen the hurt, because his good hand shot out and gripped Don's arm. "It's not you I doubt, Donny. It's justhow can you protect me here? It's not like high school." He offered his brother a lopsided grin, and Don knew he was trying to put on a brave face. They both knew Don hadn't been thrilled to play protector to his baby brother back then.

Don nodded. "I know it might seem that way, Charlie, but I can help. There are things I can do, people I can talk to. If your life is in danger, we might be able to force the courts to set bail or at least to hold you somewhere else."

"I don't suppose the words 'house arrest' or 'under his own recognizance' might come up?"

Don smiled. "We can hope."

The door to the cell opened then and the guard appeared. "Agent? Your time is up."

Don nodded, noting that the smile that had appeared so briefly on his brother's face had disappeared. He frowned at that, but stood. Just before he turned to leave, he asked his brother a question that had been nagging at him. "Charlie, why don't you have any pens? Didn't you have any one you? Didn't Dad, or even the prison supply any?"

Charlie ducked his head sheepishly, but then looked his brother in the eye. "I had one on me when I was arrested, but they took it. Dad gave me one he had on me on one of his visits, but Iit was old and nearly out of ink. I've been scratching into the underside of the desk with it, but I've run out of room. I asked" He eyed the guard and swallowed, but Don's presence gave him courage. "I asked for some, but I haven't gotten any yet."

Don nodded and reached into his own pocket and pulled out a Sharpie. "I hope this will hold you until I can send some more."

Charlie's face lit up and Don laughed that something so simple could make him so happy.

Don made his way back to his car, the reality of the situation just hitting him. The man he'd met had implied that Charlie would be hurt, and he had been. Was it something the man had caused, or something he had learned about and decided to take advantage of?

He thought about that all the way back to his office.

**April 8**

Terry watched Don as he twirled a Sharpie in his hands. He had been distracted all day, and now he'd given up all pretence of working and stared at the clock. She'd tried to talk to him, but every attempt had been shot down.

His cell phone rang, and to Terry's amazement, he jumped as though terrified. He yanked open the phone and all but barked into it.

"Eppes."

She watched, her eyes narrowing as she took in the strangeness of his behavior.

"I believe you. No! I mean, that's not necessary."

Whatever wasn't necessary, she lost the rest of the conversation as Don pardoned himself and walked toward the empty conference room and pulled the door shut behind him.

Behind the closed door of the conference room, Don was still trying to get answers. "If you can manipulate everything so easily, why do you need me?"

The man's harsh laughter was irritating. "How do you think I can manipulate everything so easily? I have a large and loyal team. Individuals scattered all over the world with access to more secrets than you can even know exist."

"If I do this, will Charlie be released?"

"As soon as I know you're mine, yes."

"When will that be?"

"When I know that you're in too deep to pull out once he's returned to you."

"And will he be all right. I mean, he won't be hurt again?"

Again the harsh laughter filtered through the cell phone. "That depends largely on you and on him. Do as I say and I will not harm him or have him harmed. I will do nothing, however, to protect him from the day to day dangers of prison life."

The way the man said those last words made Don's skin crawl. He fought the strong and sudden urge to break Charlie out of prison before anything could befall him. Both of them on the run wouldn't do them any good.

Don didn't want to agree to this. It was blackmail. Technically, if he gave up anything, especially anything concerned with national security, it could be construed as treason.

"Agent, I get the impression that you think you have all the time in the world. You don't. If you do not agree to my terms right now, I will make sure your brother is convicted if not outright killed."

Don didn't speak.

"Very well. I see I miscalculated. You don't care about your brother at all"

"What do you need?" Don asked the question because it was easier than telling the man that he'd bought himself an agent.

The man spoke as though he'd never doubted it. "You may call me Buchmann. I want a report on the progress of an investigation"

****

April 12

Buchmann watched Don as he took a seat across from the other man. This was the first time Don had been called to the man's office, and he wasn't pleased about it. He was less pleased with the next words Buchmann said to him.

"The information you've been giving me is mine already. It was a test, Agent Eppes. I was testing you to see that you weren't playing games with me. Misinformation is a favorite of most government agencies. Not to worry. You've passed."

"A test?" Don was angry and let it show. "You're testing me?"

"How else can I be sure if you're giving me what I want?"

Don stood, his fists clenched at his side, and took a menacing step forward.

Buchmann raised a hand and pointed to a portion of wall that slid aside to reveal a television. "I don't think you want to hurt me."

It took Don a moment to realize what he was looking at. On the screen, he saw Charlie sitting at a large table. It was the cafeteria at the prison. Don glared at the man. "How can you have access to this?"

The man smiled a smile that Don would have loved to remove permanently. "That isn't really your concern." He picked up his telephone and pressed the hold button making Don wonder, irrelevantly, how long Buchmann had had someone holding. He spoke one word clearly into the open line. "Now." Then, he held the phone choosing not to break the connection.

As Don watched, the man sitting next to Charlie seemed to get a visual signal from someone off screen. He then shifted in his seat, jostling Charlie's arm just as Charlie raised his cup. A dark beverage, coffee, tea, or soda, Don couldn't be sure, sloshed all over the table and all over the first man's arm. Don couldn't hear a thing, but he saw the man speak. He could see Charlie, trying to keep a low profile, was trying to apologize, but the larger man did not accept. Beefy hands gripped Charlie's shirtfront and raised the smaller, slighter man off the bench. Charlie's cast struck the table, and Charlie glanced at it involuntarily. The arm and the bruised rib, Don was sure, had to be hurting.

"Stop this!" Don said, amazed at the depth and breadth of the man's power.

Buchmann smiled. "Did you say something?"

Don's eyes were glued to his brother's struggling form. The large man had drawn back his hand and was preparing to punch Charlie in the stomachperhaps in the ribsperhaps to crack them

"STOP THIS! STOP IT NOW!" Don screamed, frantic to save his brother from the pain both Eppes boys knew was coming. He forced his eyes away from the screen and locked them on Buchmann's eyes. _"Please."_

With that one word, Buchmann spoke into the still open phone line. "Stop." He hung up not waiting to see if his orders were obeyed.

Don waited. He watched the screen, his heart rate pounding as he saw the large man seem to think better of what he was doing as the guards closed in on the pair. He didn't stop staring at the screen until Charlie was seated again. Don could see that Charlie was speaking. His lips moved almost incessantly, and several of the other men seated around him were glaring at him as though they thought him crazy. Charlie avoided their gazes keeping his eyes on the food he was no longer eating.

Don slumped back down in his chair. He was breathing heavy like a man who'd run a marathon, and he blinked back tears at his own helplessness.

Buchmann smiled. "You've passed the final test, Agent Eppes. I can see it now. I own you."

Don shuddered at the notion, but he couldn't dispute it.

****

April 13

Larry paged through the lesson plans for the next week wondering how far ahead Charlie had prepared. He wasn't covering the classes himself, but he felt an obligation to his friend to be sure that whoever was covering them would be able to decipher Charlie's sometimes indecipherable train of thought.

He had taken all of the lesson plans and other vital documents–projects near and dear to Charlie's heart, papers to be returned to students, and notes on Amita's thesis–out of Charlie's office as soon as Don had informed him that Charlie was indeed being charged. He had assumed, from his limited knowledge of police procedure, that Charlie's home and office would be searched.

He remembered as he turned the pages how adamant Charlie had been as he was being arrested that Larry had to remember his 4:00 class. Charlie had no class at that time on that day. It was unusual for Charlie to make such a mistakerealization smacked him in the face. Charlie was trying to tell him something.

He paged through Charlie's calendar, but there was nothing. He checked the appointment tracker on the computer, but that looked as though it had never been used. Finally, Larry paged through the lesson plans and there was a folder for 4:00 on the day Charlie had been arrested.

Larry read through it and, as so often happened when Charlie was involved, suddenly the pieces began to fall into place. "Forgive me, Charles, for being so obtuse."

When, Larry wondered, had Charlie developed such a sense of paranoia that it would compel him to keep a set of notes so carefully mislabeled and filed? It occurred to Larry that Charlie wasn't nearly as innocent and naïve as many assumed.

He packed up a few of Charlie's files, the ones indicated in the lesson plan file that he would need, as well as the work he and Amita and some of Charlie's students had done. A quick phone call arranging for a Teaching Assistant to monitor the test he was supposed to give this afternoon, and Larry was on his way to see Charlie.

The last time he had visited Charlie, the young professor had seemed disappointed about something. Now it was painfully obvious that he had expected Larry to bring these notes to him. Larry wondered if Charlie had assumed the delay was because he had opted not to help. He hoped that wasn't the case.

The guards, of course, inspected his briefcase, and because he was asking to leave some notes there, they were thorough. They had no idea what they were looking at. It was almost amusing watching them stare at the pages of numbers and try to decipher them.

After some time, he was finally ushered to the visiting room, and the case was passed brought to Charlie. Charlie's face lit up when he saw his friend. Speaking through the partition with a telephone was awkward, but they adjusted.

"Larry! This is a surprise." He frowned. "Didn't midterms start today? Why aren't you giving a test or grading one or something?"

"That's what TAs are for, my friend." He took in Charlie's appearance. "You have looked better."

"That's because I've been better." His hand rested on the briefcase the guard had given him. "You got my note?"

Larry nodded. "Forgive me for not coming sooner, but I am getting either stupid or senile in my old age."

"You're not old, stupid, or senile, Larry."

"Maybe not, but I am sometimes unobservant."

Charlie laughed. "Not unobservant, just _selectively_ observant."

"Charlie, Amita and I–well, not me so much–and a handful of your students have been working on your equations–the ones I saw you scribbling on the floor and walls of your office. I've included our findings in your files. We haven't solved it, yet, but there's enough in there that will either help, or, more likely, merely repeat a line of thought you've already abandoned."

Charlie smiled, genuinely surprised. "That's great! Thank everyone for me. Especially Amita. Is she okay?"

Larry shrugged. "She's coping. She wants to be of more help." He shrugged. "We both do." He leaned closer to the partition, though it was unnecessary given that they weren't speaking directly, but rather over the phone. "What is it you're hoping to discover? Maybe we could help if we had some idea."

Charlie shook his head. "I still don't know what it is that bothers me about the case. I mean, aside from the fact that I'm the prime suspect."

"Something in the math?"

"That has to be it. There's something I'm not seeing. Something that would explain if not the entire case, then at least some part of it. Maybe it's motive, criteria for choosing victims" The litany seemed to increase his frustration. "There's something my unconscious mind has recognized, but I don't know what it is!"

"Don't obsess on it, Charlie. Your brother and his friends will catch the real killer."

"I know. You're right. I just have to pinpoint what it is that's bugging me. There's something we're not seeingnot just me, but Don, the FBIthere's more here than we think there is" Charlie smiled and tried to explain away the obsession. "It's this or P versus NP, and I really don't feel like going there right now."

Larry leaned forward and dropped his voice slightly. "Listen, Charles, how are you, really? Not to state the obvious, but this must be hard on you. Is there anything I can do?"

An odd flicker of something crossed Charlie's face, and his smile almost slipped, but he managed to keep it in place. "I'm fine, Larry. Really I am."

Larry shook his head sadly. "You don't look it."

"It'shard."

"Your talent for understatement is astonishing in one so young." Larry could see that Charlie wasn't going to tell him anything. He'd have to talk to Don or Alan, although Don was increasingly hard to get a hold of lately.

Charlie shrugged. "I'm okay. At least my cellmate and I have come to an understanding. I explained a few mathematical probabilities to him. He's taken to calling me Professor."

Larry laughed louder this time. "That's great, Charles. I was afraid your cellmate would be some big goon with a bad attitude."

"Oh, he is. Well, he's big, but the attitude is okay now that it's not directed at me."

Charlie gave Larry a brave smile as the guard came over to tell him his time was up. "I'll be okay, Larry. Justlook in on my Dad and on Don for me, will you? Dad has never been alone in that house for this long. I don't want him to start thinking too hard aboutyou know?"

"I will, Charles."

As Charlie was led away, Larry could hear him begin to mumble numbers and complex equations under his breath. He resolved to continue working with Amita and the others. It wasn't much, and Charlie was certainly a better mathematician than he was, but it was something that would make him feel useful. He'd get started as soon as he stopped by to see Alan Eppes.

The house was dark and as silent as Alan could remember it ever being. It was hard to be alone in your home after years of being with the people you loved the most. He thought he'd considered what it would be like when he'd decided to sell his house. Now he couldn't help but be grateful to Charlie for deciding to buy it.

When he'd decided to sell the house, he had thought living alone would be good for both him and for his son. Now, all he wanted was to see Charlie coming through the door, or pouring over papers scattered across every free surface in the house. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. He wasn't happy. Charlie certainly wasn't happy. What could he have been thinking? If only he had it to do over again! Separation from his baby son–for no matter his age, that was what Charlie was–seemed unbearable now that Charlie was in a jail cell.

Alan shuddered at the idea. Charlie didn't belong in prison. It was absurd.

A knock on the door shook him from his reverie.

He was sure it wasn't Don. His eldest son was keeping his distance lately, and Alan liked to think it was because he was busy getting Charlie released. Opening the door, he was surprised for a moment to see Charlie's friend.

"Larry. This is a surprise."

"I promised Charles I'd look in on you, Mr. Eppes, and he'd know if I didn't."

Alan laughed. "**He's** in prison and he wants you to look in on **me**?"

"He's worried about you."

"When did you see him?"

"Just a little while ago. He's convinced there's something about this case that he's missing, so he's trying to go through the data again. It'shard for him."

Alan nodded. "I know. He never did take to staying put. He likes to move around, even when he's working. The worst punishment his mother and I could ever come up with for him was time out in the corner. It brought him to tears more than once to be stuck staring at a wall without at least a pencil or crayon or chalk or something." He ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't something he'll ever get used to. If they convict him" He let the thought trail and he cleared his throat. "Well, it worries me."

"They won't. Don won't let that happen. He'd do anything to save Charlie."

Alan nodded. "That worries me, too."

****

April 15

Terry was surprised when Don told the agents not to bother coming over one night. Apparently, he was too distraught to keep working the angles. He'd been more and more agitated at work. She wasn't the only one to notice. He was bouncing off the walls one minute and motionless the next. She understood his anxiety, even his anger, or she was trying to, but she hated what he was doing to himself.

Giving it some thought, she supposed that just because Don needed a break, didn't mean that she'd stop working. She parked her car a half block from his apartment and had just started walking when she saw him coming out.

Something, some instinct, told her to hide, though she felt ridiculous hiding from Don. She tailed him for about a block or two and he slipped into a coffee shop on the corner. She peered in the window and saw a strange looking man with a sinister smile sitting in the booth Don slipped into.

She watched for a moment and saw Don handed an envelope to the man. A few unfriendly words later, Don got up and left. He was out on the sidewalk before Terry could think to hide, and their eyes locked on each other. Terry didn't know what she'd seen, but she knew a shady deal when she saw one, and, even if she hadn't, the look on Don's face would have told her more than she needed to know.

Don peered in the window then walked swiftly to Terry's side. Grabbing her roughly by the arm, he started to walk back to his apartment. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you that."

"Well, don't."

"That's all you're going to say? I see you here"

"What?" He stopped walking, never taking his hand off her arm. "What did you see? You have no idea what you just saw, so don't pretend" He took a deep breath, looked around, and began moving again, dragging her toward his apartment. He didn't speak again until they were safely inside, and he'd switched on the radio, which she found odd. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to pick up some of your files and work on Charlie's case." Terry told him quietly. She was still trying to come to grips with what she had seen.

"I've got Charlie covered. I don't want you breaking any rules for me."

She shook her head. "I'm breaking them for him. He's my friend, too. I care about what happens to him." She stepped back away from him and the door. She couldn't look at him. Something was seriously wrong.

"Don, if you're into something"

"Don't worry about what I'm into."

She raised her hands slightly as though trying to get a grip on something. "I'm a profiler. Like Charlie sees patterns in numbers, I see them in behavior. You look like a man with a secret."

The silence was almost overwhelming, but she saw confirmation of her accusations in his eyes. _Maybe it's not that bad,_ she thought. _Maybe the secret isn't what I think it is._ She didn't want to ask, but she knew she had to. Not just because it was her sworn duty as a law enforcement officer, but because of a much more personal responsibility. This man was her friend, had almost been much more than thatand might be again. She couldn't just allow him to throw his life away because things looked bleak. There had to be a way to save Charlie and not lose Don.

Still he refused to answer. She had only one chance; that having a witness to what he'd done would be more than he could bear. "I saw a drop. Tell me it was a sanctioned sting operation and it will go no further. If it wasn'tDon, Ithere are rulesif an agent sees another agent in a situation like thisthat agent has to report it. Do I have to report it, Don?

Don stepped away from the door. His eyes were dark, haunted, and somehow, dead. He opened the door and stood to one side holding it open.

Terry didn't have to be told twice. She started to leave. Just as she passed him, he grabbed her arm. "Make your report." He whispered the words, but with an intensity that she recognized as the old Don. Her Don. She opened her mouth to say something, but he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. She closed her mouth again and stepped out, hearing the door slam shut behind her.

She heard him click the chains in place, and she heard the muffled sound of Don sliding down the length of the closed door. She wanted nothing more than to go to him, but she knew she couldn't.

April 16

Charlie scribbled on the walls trying to get the numbers and equations he was working on to make sense. He'd slipped into P versus NP for awhile, but had shaken that off and returned to the equation that could lead him to the real killerthe one who had expertly framed him. He'd used all the paper Don had sent him in the first couple of days. Now, the walls, the floors, even the chair, sported the black ink of his fine point Sharpie in swirls and numbers and patterns that he found comforting.

His cellmate generally left him alone unless Charlie somehow disturbed his sleep. Charlie tried not to do that, but occasionally, he would cry out in either triumph or frustration depending on how the equation was going. The other man had first responded to those instances by hitting Charlie or threatening him in some way. Then one night, Charlie had blurted out something that had stopped the man in his tracks.

"The amount of force you use to hit me is proportional to how deeply asleep you are when I disturb you."

The man blinked and loosened his grip. "What?"

"The amount of force you use to hit me is proportional to how deeply asleep you are when I disturb you. It's actually a bit fascinating, and I've worked it out in the corner of the room over by the cell door. You see if A equals the amount of force"

He'd gone on and on and had walked the man through the equation. The man had been amazed, first of all that the numbers and complex looking equations had anything to do with him, and, second of all, that anyone would spend so much time working out some sort of equation based on his behavior. That was when, as he'd told Larry, the man had started to call him Professor. Since that night, the man, whose name was Mike, while certainly not proclaiming himself Charlie's biggest fan, had generally been more tolerant of Charlie's nocturnal activities, especially once he had explained that they might help him prove he was innocent.

Charlie had noticed that a large proportion of the prison population supported the idea of getting out of prison whether legally or illegally. Since he was new, it was expected that he would be trying to get out through proper channels.

He looked down at his sharpie. It was drying out, and wouldn't last another hour. Not that he had an hour. He had pulled kitchen duty this week and he was supposed to report to the kitchen to set up for lunch. The guard would be by in fifteen minutes to escort him there.

When the guard appeared ten minutes early, Charlie really didn't give it much thought. When they headed in the opposite direction from the kitchen, Charlie barely noticed. Calculations running in his mind, and out of his mouth, he only paused to take in his surroundings when the guard stopped. Realizing he'd fallen prey to his own inattentiveness, not that he was all that certain he'd have been able to keep this from happening if he had been aware of it at the time, Charlie backed away from the guard.

"Where are we?" Charlie succeeded in keeping the fear out of his voice.

"Not your concern." The man closed the distance between them and drew back his arm to throw a punch.

Charlie didn't wait for the blow. He was a genius, after all. He ducked and raced to his left, dodging under the conduits and pipes. Laundry, he thought, and sure enough, as he raced down the hall he passed the laundry rooms. The guard was still chasing him, and Charlie's fear and unfamiliarity with the place left him at a disadvantage. He felt like a mouse in a maze. Everywhere he turned, there was something blocking his way. He twisted, turned, ducked, dodged, but still he couldn't find a way out. The noise and the steam further disoriented him, and he twisted when he should have dodged, ending up face to face with the guard who'd been chasing him.

To Be Continued


	6. part 6

****

Manipulation Part 6

****

By Ecri

****

April 16

Alan checked and rechecked the sheet of paper where he'd scribbled down the times he could see his son. The last time he had come to visit Charlie, his son's lawyer was already visiting, and Alan, though he'd waited, had not been able to see him. It was his own fault for misunderstanding the times, but it made him more determined that he would see Charlie today. The thought of his son in this awful place made Alan's heart ache.

He checked his watch. It was nearly three o'clock now. Unless the lawyer was there again, and he'd checked with the lawyer's office just to make sure he'd be able to see Charlie. He checked in with the guard at the desk, the man nodded, and checked something on his computer.

Alan was watching the man closely, and, knew just by the way the man stared at the screen that something was wrong. "What is it?" He demanded.

"UhI'm sorry, sir. You should have been notified. Your son can't have visitors today."

"HeI've been waitingwhat do you mean?" The man didn't say anything, but quickly darkened his computer screen as though concerned that Alan would leap over the desk and demand to see it. "Where's my son?"

"He can't have visitor's right now, sir."

Alan calmly leaned over the desk and spoke very softly. "That's not what I asked. I want to know where he is. Has something happened to him?"

The guard smiled disingenuously and gestured for Alan to take a seat. He picked up the phone and began to speak in hushed tones to someone on the other end.

Alan refused to sit and merely glared at the man. When the guard finally hung up, he stood. "Sir, if you'll come with me, the warden would like to see you."

"The warden?" Alan didn't like the sound of that.

**Hours later**

Alan felt every minute of the long drive home. Emotionally, he felt as if he had run relived his wife's last months. Exhaustion didn't come close to describing it. He had wanted to call Don, but the Warden had been kind enough to let him be with Charlie in the infirmary and CharlieCharlie had gripped Alan's arm as though to let go would be to cause the world to end.

Someone, Alan wasn't clear who, had found Charlie in the corridors near the laundry. There was some question as to how he'd gotten there, since he'd been expected in the kitchen, but that was a question for another day as far as Alan was concerned. Charlie had been beaten. The warden insisted that Charlie had been lucky, but Alan didn't see it. The bruises and the bleeding were bad enough without wondering what the warden meant by "it could have been worse". Alan shuddered even to contemplate such a thing.

Charlie's bruising had been painful for Alan to look at, and imagining the pain his child might be in took his breath away. His chest was an alarming array of color–blue, black, green, and purple. Bright and tender, Charlie's flesh was a vivid visual reminder that every movement, every breath Alan's son took was painful. One of Charlie's ribs had cracked. It hadn't broken clean through, however, and the doctors seemed delighted at that. It was hard for Alan to be delighted about anything when Charlie would wince or groan at every probe or poke from a doctor or nurse.

He was grateful no other bones were broken, but it seemed like a small consolation at this point.

Now, rather than go home, he'd decided to see Don. He called first to see if his eldest son was home, but when there had been no answer, Alan decided to go to Don's apartment and wait for him. He would tell Don what had happened in person.

When he arrived at Don's apartment, he knew something was wrong. The lights were out, the apartment dark. Don was always up late. Here it was only 10:00 PM and he was asleep? Of course, he could be outbut he usually left a light on.

Alan knocked on the door. He waited a reasonable amount of time, and then he knocked again. He heard something inside, like a breaking glass, and became concerned. 

"Don? Open the door! It's your father!" He pounded again, but there was still no answer.

"Don! Are you all right?" No reply. "Don, I have to talk to you about Charlie!"

The door opened almost instantly and Alan found himself staring at his son, but not recognizing him. Don was standing there before him wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old tee shirt, which even the words 'laundry day' would not excuse anyone from wearing. In his hand he clutched a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a piece of what had once been a glass.

"Don?" Alan stared at his son in surprise.

"What about Charlie?" Don croaked.

"He was hurt today"

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah. How did you find out?"

"I was trying to visit him and the warden let me go to the infirmary to see him. It's not good, Don." Alan moved forward ushering Don into his own apartment and securing himself a place on the side of the door he preferred to be on. He wasn't going to risk Don throwing him out. "Donny, what's happened to you?"

"I found out about CharlieI guess I got a little drunk."

"How did you find out about Charlie?"

Don fumbled for words. "My fault. He thought I was followed. He saw Terry and thoughtit was to teach me a lessonI didn't know" He stopped himself abruptly.

Alan, knowing and understanding his son's sensitive work, still couldn't help but demand clarification. "What are you talking about? Was Charlie hurt because of the cases he's worked on for the FBI?"

Don snorted. "Nice of you not to say 'the cases he's worked on for _me_' but no, that's not entirely accurate."

"What, then, Don?"

Don shook his head. "No. I can'tI can't" He drew in a deep breath, but when he released it, it was shaky and hinted that tears would soon follow. "My fault"

Alan didn't know what was causing this, but he knew how to comfort his own son. He moved to the sofa and sat down, forcing Don to sit beside him. Then he eased the bottle and the piece of a glass from Don's hands and rested them on the coffee table. Don kept talking the entire time, but Alan didn't understand most of it. Something about being responsible for Charlie being hurt, but Alan knew that Don had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility where Charlie's safety was concerned.

He felt responsible for that, and the never-ending circle of responsibility was an irony that was not lost on him. He had cause, however. When Don had been at his most explosive, his most irrational, and his most resentful of his baby brother's intellect and accomplishments, Alan had shared with Don the fear that kept him awake nights.

It had been the night before Charlie's first day at Don's high school. Don was vociferous in his objections. Alan had sat down with Don and explained that Charlie wasn't always observant of what was going on around him, and that he was, as most young children were, a bit too trusting. He'd explained to Don that Charlie was an easy target for the criminal element. Don hadn't believed him at first. Reluctantly, Alan had shown Don the mail. After appearing in a segment on _60 Minutes_ on gifted children, which the Eppes had only agreed to do because the educational costs for a child like Charlie were financially crippling the family, the mail had begun to pour in.

They'd received requests that Charlie figure out the best way to win at craps or that Charlie find the most likely winning lottery number–and those had been the normal ones. Other letters had requested that Charlie decipher the exact landing area of the flying saucers that would return to Earth to pick up their imprisoned brethren from the Roswell crash or that Charlie apply his genius in helping to develop a bridge between dimensions, among other things. Alan hadn't even shown Don the truly terrifying ones. There had been requests to 'loan' Charlie out to projects over an extended period of time so that he could work uninterrupted on a project. Another asking that Charlie be returned to his 'true' family, visitors from the 21st Planet from which Charlie had been stolen at birth and taken to Earth where he had been switched for a human baby.

He had immediately regretted sharing all of that with Don. He had seen, since that night, how protective Don had grown. Not that he hadn't been protective before then, but it had definitely intensified. Alan had seen a resurgence of this protectiveness almost daily now that his boys were working together, and he knew Don well enough to know that he saw himself as a failure, now, because his brother was out of his reach.

He shushed Don's words until they stopped, and held him as he cried. He knew something was going on, and he knew he was going to be in the dark for a lot longer. His only hope was that, in the end, both his sons would be okay.

****

April 17

Morning was a hard thing to face when you'd had a fifth of scotch for dinner and fallen asleep in your father's arms. Don struggled to sit up, tossing off the blankey he didn't even remember owning in the process. He smelled something, and it smelled suspiciously like food. He stumbled toward the kitchen to find his father just removing what looked like more than a half dozen scrambled eggs from a frying pan.

"I had eggs?"

Alan smiled. "I went out." He placed the pan on the stove and gestured to the table. "Come, sit and eat."

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

Alan shook his head. "You don't have much food in the apartment, you don't have much garbage in the garbage can, so, either you've been eating out a lot, or you haven't been eating. Which is it?"

Don smiled at his father's logic. Don might be a gifted detective, and Charlie might be a mathematical genius, but it wasn't hard to guess how they came by their gifts. "You figured all that out, I don't think you need me to tell you which it is."

"You can't live on coffeeand scotch." Alan said as he took a seat at the table.

Don shook his head as he took the seat across from his father. "No, I suppose not." He was perfectly aware that his father was right, but when the call had come last night, when he heard Buchmann's voice telling him what had been done to Charlie

"I don't know what you were trying to pull, Agent Eppes, but the attempt will cost you."

Confusion won out over panic and Don could honestly tell Buchmann that he hadn't a clue what the man was talking about.

"Oh, I'm sure." Buchmann's sarcasm failed to hide his pleasure at having to prove his point once again. "Agent Lake was at the drop. You apparently need to be taught that your superiors cannot be told"

"They weren't! Terry was checking up on me!" Don cursed himself for the pleading tone, but his blood had run cold at the thought of what sort of lesson Buchmann might be contemplating.

"Don't interrupt me, Agent." He waited a beat, and Don didn't try to fill that brief silence. "I assumed you would deny everything, and I am not unreasonable. I will grant you the chance to prove yourself, but I had some friends of mine pay a visit to your brother."

"What? What did you do to him?"

"Check your mailbox, Agent Eppes." The click as the call was disconnected hadn't even faded before Don was racing to the mailboxes down in the lobby. Inserting a key with a shaking hand, he withdrew a single videotape. Attached was a note. Block letters spelled out the words: Don't bother dusting for prints.

Don had raced back to his apartment and watched the tape. It was a shaky, slightly obstructed view, as though the camera had been hidden somewhere unbeknownst to those being filmed. Don's heart flew to his throat as he recognized Charlie running through the frame, only to be brought up short by a guard. Charlie tried to get away. With an agility that Don wouldn't have believed he possessed, Charlie twisted, turned, sidestepped, and wriggled away from his assailant, but he couldn't get away. Horrified, Don saw his brother being beaten, heard his screams, but there was nothing he could do. He could not step in and prevent this as he had prevented other such things in Charlie's life.

He ejected the tape, thinking it might be hard evidence, though he wasn't sure yet what to do about that. He dove for the phone and called the jail. By the time he'd confirmed Charlie's injuries as well as the surprising fact that his father was there hovering over his brother in the infirmary, Don realized that the tape had let off a puff of smoke in some sort of controlled chemical reaction, leaving behind an unplayable plastic puddle.

That was when he'd reached for the whiskey.

So lost was he in his memory that he was startled when his father began to speak to him.

"Donny, whatever you're going through–" he held up his hands as Don opened his mouth to speak. "–I'm not asking–but whatever it is, you can't deal with it at all if you make yourself sick. Charlie is going to need you over the next month. You should go see him."

Don nodded. "I know. I should, but not today. There's too much going on at work." He didn't say that he couldn't face his brother now. Not now. He'd caused this latest injury, at the very least by not guessing that Buchmann would react that way to seeing Terry at their meeting.

"I'm hoping" He looked away and blew air out of his mouth debating with himself over what to tell his father. "I'm into aright now that I hope will clear Charlie."

Alan's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful!"

"Not a word, Dad. Don't tell a soul. It's a very tenuous situation."

Alan smiled. "Should I be worried?"

Don looked his father in the eye and gave him an answer to that question he'd never given him before. "Yeah, you should."

Charlie remembered his father having been there, but his absence as he awoke in the infirmary to pain and unfamiliar faces was as acute as if he hadn't seen him for weeks. He knew he was lucky. He'd been bloodied and bruised, but he was sure, aside from cracking his bruised rib, he'd avoided any broken bones. He imagined he looked worse than he felt, until he shifted and a pain bloomed hot and intense in his chest. A groan escaped him, and immediately a doctor was by his bed.

"You should try to keep still."

"I worked that out on my own."

The doctor smiled. "Your father was here."

"I remember."

"That's a good sign. I want you to stay here for a few days."

"Whatever you say, Doc." He trailed off as his thoughts were infiltrated by a sudden realization. Suddenly, the numbers he'd been pouring over for so long seemed to release their secret, or at least part of it. He recalled a complex sequence and applied the new thoughts. Sure enough, he was getting a message hidden inside the numbers. Relevant numbers in the case in a chronological order and made to 'jump through hoops' as Larry put it, actually spelled out a message. It was incomplete, though. It wasn't enough.

He turned his head and called to the doctor. "I need some paper and a pen."

The doctor gave him the items, but not without admonishment not to tax himself. Charlie never heard the words.

He scribbled down what he had in his head. Incomplete! It was incomplete! He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. He had to get it to Don.

Another doctor, unfamiliar to Charlie, was at his side then. "Mr. Eppes"

"_Dr_. Eppes. I'm a doctor. Of mathematics."

"Dr. Eppes, I need you to put these things down. You won't need them for now."

"What? What do you mean?" Charlie saw the doctor approaching him with a hypodermic. "Look, whatever that is, I don't want it. The pain's not bad, really." He pulled back trying to get away from the needle as he explained himself.

"It's not a painkiller."

"It's not?"

"No." The man smiled, but it seemed ominous now.

"Well, then I _really_ don't want it."

"Dr. Eppes, I'm under orders. I can't have you awake and alert while you're transported."

"TransOW!" Charlie yelled as the doctor jabbed his arm much harder than was necessary. He felt a tingle at the injection site and sucked in a breath as it turned into a burning pain. "What" He never finished the thought.

The smell of stale coffee and staler donuts permeated the room, but Terry Lake refused to clean it up. If she began to pick up after her male counterparts, she'd be doing it for the rest of her life. She'd rather smell the prehistoric coffee and the moldy crullers.

She'd made an appointment with the AD, intending to tell him about Don's meeting, but she still wasn't sure if she should keep it. How could she turn him in? How could he look her in the eye and tell her to turn him in?

She stared at Don's empty chair for a moment, but forced her attention back to the case at hand. Since Charlie's arrest, she'd been working on a string of jewelry robberies and bank heists that appeared to have nothing in common. She had to remind herself time and again that Charlie wasn't available to consult, and she couldn't bring herself to use another Bureau consultant. It seemed disloyal somehow, at least for now, while there was a chance that Charlie could be cleared.

Don's absence was weighing on her. He'd taken to missing a lot of work lately, and she knew that he'd cleared from his apartment all of the agents who'd volunteered their time to look into Charlie's case. It didn't add up, and she almost smiled at the mathematical allusion.

She stood and moved to Don's desk under the guise of looking for a file, and took a moment to see if anything was out of place. At first, everything seemed the same as it always was, but something nagged at the back of her mind. Something was different.

Her eyes darted from one set of items to another as she tried to chart it all, to compare it to a mental image she had of the way Don's desk usually looked.

"Can I help you?"

Don't voice startled her enough to make her jump. She laughed it off. "Sorry, I was looking for the Miller file."

Don leaned over his desk and pulled the file in question from the top of the pile in his in box. "There you go."

"Thanks." She smiled as she moved back to her own desk hoping he hadn't guessed_guessed what_? She asked herself. _That you stare at his desk when he's not there?_

As she sat, her gaze fell on the corner of his desk and she knew what was missing: the picture of Don and Charlie. What that could mean she really didn't know. That it was missing intrigued her.

AD Kraft had expected Terry Lake to call for an appointment eventually. He was sure the woman wanted to talk about her partner. Don Eppes had apparently inspired a great deal of loyalty among the agents in the Bureau, and Terry's conviction that Don's brother was innocent would be par for the course.

As would her nervousness over the situation. When she entered his office, he'd gestured for her to sit and tried to take charge of the conversation.

"Agent, I know why you're here"

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think you do."

He smiled. "I know more than you think."

"Sir," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I am here to tell you that"

She faltered and Kraft sighed. She was a good agent. He would have to make this easier on her, regulations be damned. "Agent, I _do_ know why you're here."

"How could you possibly know?"

"Because I told him."

Terry whirled around to see Don standing by the side door that led to the AD's private office.

Kraft sighed. This was going to be difficult.

Charlie awoke in a room he didn't immediately recognize. It could have been anywhere. Institutional cinder block walls, gray paint, a chair to which he was tiedhis brow furrowed as he considered that. They wouldn't do that in prison, would they? It seemed like something that they wouldn't be allowed to do. It seemed to him that he should be able to think more clearly. He recalled the infirmary. He had a vague recollection of his father having been there. Why would his father have been in the infirmary?

His head was pounding, making it hard to think.

A man entered the room. He was tall, thin, and wore a smile that looked as though it had never known joy. Just looking at the man sent a shiver down his spine.

As Charlie stared at the man, he realized his head was clearing. Whatever had been used on him, and he was certain he'd been drugged, the man must know precisely how quickly it dissipated. He blinked and cleared his throat and shook his head, hoping these things would help him focus that much quicker.

The man seemed amused, but Charlie ignored that.

"Buchmann, I presume."

The man's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Impressive, Dr. Eppes. I hadn't expected you to figure that much out so quickly. I hadn't had time to complete the message."

"How many people were you planning to kill just to send a message to the authorities?"

"Oh, the message wasn't for the authorities. It was for you."

Charlie blinked again and shook his head. "For me?"

"Yes, Charlie, may I call you Charlie."

"No."

Buchmann laughed. "Very well, Dr. Eppes."

Charlie tried but couldn't comprehend what he was being told. "Who are you and why am I here? What is it you want from me?"

"You know who I am."

"I know your name, which is most likely an alias. I still don't know who you are." Charlie didn't bother to hide his anger and irritation. His life had fallen out of his own control, if indeed it had ever been in his control. He was more than a little frightened at the thought of how easily this man had taken him from prison, and the fear made him angry, strange as that seemed to him.

The man smiled, but it was a smile devoid of joy. Instead, it seemed slick, creepy, and it sent another shiver down Charlie's spine.

"I want you to work for me."

Charlie snorted. "This is the oddest job interview I've ever been on."

"It's no interview. It's an offer. Not to be cliché, it's an offer you can't refuse. I need someone of your brilliance to assist me. You can write computer programs, you can find patterns in the seemingly random, you can help me plan the greatest crime sprees the world has ever known. You can remember long and complex strings of numbers, like accounts and authorization codes. You work for me and, when this goes to trial, I can guarantee that you will be acquitted."

"It seems to me that you must have a fairly phenomenal mathematician on your payroll in order for you to devise a scheme this complicated. That mathematical code was too complex for anyone not intimate with advanced mathematical theory. Why do you need me?"

Buchmann's eyes narrowed, and Charlie guessed that he didn't like his motives being questioned. "I need you because your insights are intuitive. You can do in a few minutes what it takes other mathematicians weeks if not months to do. I need you because you are the best."

Charlie shook his head. "I'm not that special."

"You are a stable, that is to say, not insane, prodigy with NSA clearance and close ties to the FBI. You can keep an eye on the investigations into the crimes you help me commit and you can keep me in the clear."

"What makes you think I'd help you?" Charlie didn't like that Buchmann was remaining so calm. It was like he had an answer for everything. It was eerie. He tried to present a calm demeanor. He didn't want his panic to show. He wasn't sure why, but he felt that it would give Buchmann a stronger hold over him if he seemed as panicked as he felt. He was well aware that he had anything but a poker face, but to hold this conversation without screaming or stuttering was, he thought, an astonishing accomplishment.

"You'll help me because if I can frame you so completely for crimes you did not commit, I can also ruin Don's careeror hurt himor kill himor kill your father

Buchmann paused between each example and Charlie felt the man's satisfaction at his reaction. His eyes, he knew, were wide, and he felt helplessa detail enhanced by his injuries as well as his being tied to the chair.

"or Amitaor Larry" Buchmann continued.

Charlie closed his eyes and swallowed, forcing away the image of Amita taking the victim's place in any one of a number of crime scene photos he'd seen since he'd begun working with his brother. That brief flash of his imagination had stolen the strength from his limbs and from his voice.

"You" his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. "You couldn't really kill them because your hold over me would be gone"

Buchmann rose from his seat and approached Charlie getting closer and closer until Charlie was forced to tilt his head back as far as possible just to maintain eye contact. "There are so many people you care about, Charlie. If I were to kill, say"

Charlie swallowed and tried not to hyperventilate. He noticed Buchman's smile.

"Or perhapsDon and Amita" again he paused, and again, Charlie fought to keep the overwhelming visions and emotions that they carried with them from stealing his reason.

"I would still have your father and Larryand your studentsand Terry Lake. Besides which, I can do a lot of damage to Don or Amita or any one of the others without actually taking their lives." He shrugged. "And if you became so uncooperative that you forced me to kill them all, I would frame you for their murders and then I would simply move on to the next mathematician I could find. You see, Charlie, I have done this before, and I will do it againunless you cooperate."

"You mustbe bluffing" Charlie was grasping at straws and he knew it, but the power it took to do what this man claimed he could do was unimaginable. "If you could do all that, why do you need me?"

"How do you think I can do all that? I own a great many people."

Charlie shook his head in disbelief. "No. I can't let you use me. I don't believe you."

"Then how are you here?" He gestured to the room around them, which Charlie was fairly certain wasn't in the jail.

Charlie shook his head again.

"Ah, I'd hoped we could dispense with the need for me to prove myself to you. No matter. Geniuses are often the worst skeptics. These images," Buchmann said, gesturing to a wall, "were recorded earlier today." Charlie saw a series of television screens. Buchmann's gesture must have been a signal to someone because the screens lit up.

Charlie saw almost immediately that one showed his brother driving somewhere. A camera was obviously mounted on a car that was driving near to him. As Charlie watched, the car with the camera rear-ended Don's car, which went careening into the highway divider. Luckily, there was nothing to hit, and, though it took some fancy defensive driving on Don's part, he eventually brought the car to a halt. Charlie saw Don leap out of the car and look for whoever had hit himbut the camera car kept driving. He saw Don pull out his cell, and that was it.

Fear constricted Charlie's throat and he was unable to say a word. He stared in mute horror as his attention was diverted to the other screen. It showed his house. His father's car wasn't in the driveway, but someone was breaking in. The view shifted when the man, wearing black clothes and a ski mask, made it inside and began to overturn chairs and break lamps before rifling drawers for valuables.

To Charlie's horror, his father's car pulled into the driveway. He watched as his father entered with a sack of groceries, only to 'surprise' the burglar who had been waiting for him. The burglar hit his father over the head with a flashlight and ran.

Charlie still couldn't speak. He watched until, somehow, his father reached the phone and dialed 9-1-1. Then he looked up at Buchmann. He would have to do what the man said. There was no way out of this that he could see.

He forced his mouth to work, forced sounds past his dry throat and drier lips, though what came out was the barest of whispers. "Please don't hurt them."

"Do you work for me, Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie knew that the answer was written on his face, and, since he couldn't bring himself to say a word, he merely nodded.

Buchmann only smiled as someone entered with a syringe, and, though Charlie struggled as well as he was able, injected something into him. In moments, he again slipped away, though this time he welcomed the darkness.

Terry stared at Don, incredulous that he would turn himself in like this. "Don, what are you doing?"

"I had to, Terry." He looked forlorn to Terry. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders and she'd just made it worse by somehow getting him to confess to something that would ruin his career.

She'd never be able to live with this. She wanted to apologize to him for putting him in this sort of predicament, but what could she say in front of AD Kraft?

"It's okay."

Don said softly, and, as she looked at him, she saw that something was different. Gone was the overwhelming hopelessness she'd seen growing in him since Charlie had been denied bail. In its place was determination. There was fear in there of course, for Charlie's health, but it was tempered by Don's usual problem solving, can do attitude. She stared at him for a moment, unsure what exactly was going on.

Kraft spoke next. "Agent Lake, Agent Eppes had been involved in an undercover operation. He is playing the part of an agent on the take in order to catch the maniac who not only killed nine people, but also framed his brother for their murders."

It was a lot of information and it set the topsy-turvy world in which she'd been living recently to rights. "Why wasn't I in on it from the beginning?"

Kraft sat back in his seat. "Need to know. Only Agent Eppes and myself know about it." He shrugged. "Honestly, it was a risky thing for Don even coming to me. We're hoping to uncover some dirty agents on this one. He took a chance in trusting me."

Don shook his head. "No, sir. I didn't. I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"Then why not tell me?" Terry couldn't help but feel she was being ignored.

Don looked her in the eye. "Because I think my house is being watched, maybe even bugged. I needed anything you said to me to be what you really thought."

"That's why, when I told you I'd have to make a report, you told me to do it. You thought I'd incriminate myself with the Assistant Director and compromise my career."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"I'm just glad it turned out this way. When I thought you'd changed sides" She caught herself before she could say anything emotional. "So, we think this guy framed Charlie?"

"We know he did." Don filled her in on his conversations with Buchmann.

"Megalomaniac. Likes to be in control and likes to have others realize that he is in control of them. How much danger is Charlie in?" She saw Don's hesitation and something in the pit of her stomach turned to lead. "Don?"

"We can't pull him out, even though we now have a confession, because it would tip our hand. We can't even speak to him about it, because we know he has Charlie under surveillance." Don turned away from her then, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Terry waited, outwardly calm, but inwardly something had just hit her hard.

"When I saw you at the diner, he saw me, didn't he? Is that why Charlie was hurt?"

Don's silence and the look in his eyes was all the answer she needed. Her mistake had caused it. Charlie had been hurt because of her. "Oh, Don"

"We're not going there, people. We still have an undercover operation in progress. Don was here to fill me in on the last contact." Kraft turned his attention on Don.

"Well, he's accepted everything I've given him so far, and he hasn't really seemed to have any rhyme or reason to it all. I was thinking it might be time for me to push a little. I thought I should demand that he find a way to release Charlie."

Kraft nodded. "It probably the perfect time. See what he says and what he promises. He should expect you to start making demands. If you're too patient it might tip him off."

"Do you think he'll do it?" Terry wanted to know.

Don shook his head. "Unlikely. Charlie's the hold he has on me. If he releases him too soon"

"He might think he can afford to release Charlie because he can hurt him anytime." She saw the look in Don's eye and hurried to explain. "I mean, if he's able to have Charlie hurt in prison, he probably feels he can hurt him at his pleasure. We could protect him more once he's outside, though." She turned to Kraft for confirmation.

Kraft nodded. "We could. Nothing overt, but we could create a lot of reasons for him to be within the company of a select group. They wouldn't even need to be told there's a threat. The two of you and Agent Sinclairno one would attack Charlie if there were at least a few agents around him. They can't all be on the take."

Don didn't seem to assured by any of this, so Terry changed the subject. "Does your father know about any of this?"

Don shook his head. "No. There's no way to tell him. I don't know what kind of surveillance Buchmann has set up, so I have to be careful what I say. I'll tell you what; he does suspect something. He won't say, but he's sort of let me know that he'll leave it in my hands and not ask too many questions."

Kraft's phone rang. He answered it gruffly and cast an odd look at Don. "He's here." He covered the phone with his hand and spoke to Don. "It's your father. He's at the hospital. It's not serious," he hastened to add as Don's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "There was a robbery and he surprised the burglar. The hospital won't release him without someone to drive him home. I'll tell them you're on your way."

Don nodded and raced out of the room. Terry's instinct was to follow, but she turned to Kraft to see if he still wanted to speak to her. Kraft just drew his hand from the phone. "Agent Eppes and his partner are on the way."

Terry was out of the office and close on Don's heels even before Kraft hung up.

To Be Continued.


	7. Part 7

****

I hope you all like this chapter. Special thanks to Xanthia Morgan for her invaluable suggestions!

Manipulation Part 7

By Ecri

Alan insisted he was fine and didn't need to be watched. Don wasn't so sure, so he'd arranged to stay at the house with him at least overnight. He didn't think his father would allow him to stay much longer.

At first he'd been concerned that Buchmann wouldn't be able to reach him, but then he'd reminded himself that Buchmann was the one who seemed to know everything even before it happened.

He wasn't about to let his guard down, because he did suspect either that the house was bugged or that, possibly, some other form of surveillance was being used.

He refused to be intimidated by that thought, however. He was trying to behave normally or as close to it as was possible. Don knew that, if his father had been robbed while Charlie was still safe and sound and living at home, he would still most likely have wanted to stay over.

Don spent part of the night fussing over his father, who didn't want to be fussed over, and the other part making a list of questions he could ask Larry and Amita about probability and statistics. He had a feeling there were few coincidences in his life anymore, and he wanted the math to back it up.

Don's anxiety over his situation hadn't truly lessened, but it was comforting somehow that Terry knew what was going on. He hated keeping secrets from her. If nothing else, at least the silences were back to being companionable.

He walked into the office feeling lighter and more focused than he had since he'd gone to Kraft with Buchmann's offer. Kraft had been shaken by the thought that this pointed at corruption well within the hierarchy of the FBI. Without knowing who to trust, the two men had agreed to keep it to themselves. Don had only just filled Kraft in on the need to let Terry in on it when Terry had made an appointment through channels to see the AD.

Don had smiled and explained to Kraft. "She saw me at the drop. She's turning me in."

Kraft had been surprised that Terry would do such a thing, but shared Don's relief. Whatever others thought about it later didn't trouble Don. Terry was, as she would always be in his mind, above reproach. He'd been so happy at the thought of her knowing everything, that he'd stopped on the way to work to get her a cup of coffee. He'd just arrived at his desk and passed the tall cup to his surprised partner when his cell phone rang.

"Eppes."

"Don, it's Larry. I got your message. You wanted to talk?"

"Yes, can I come by your office?"

"This is about Charles, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but I'd rather talk to you about it in your office." Don's heart was racing. He wasn't sure if his call could be intercepted, but Buchmann had shown a surprising ability to anticipate him. If Buchmann knew he was talking about Charlie to Larry, that might be considered normal enough. If Buchmann heard what they were going to discuss, then he would know that Don was still trying to work the angles. To his relief, Larry understood his unspoken concerns.

"That's fine, Don. Let's seeit's 9:15. I'm between classes from 10:30 until 11:30, will that be all right?"

"Perfect, Larry. I'll be there."

He hung up and filled Terry inon paper. They still didn't want to take the chance of being overheard by anyone less than trustworthy. Plus, Don had seen Agent Pierce lurking nearby just before he'd answered his phone. The man didn't seem to be in the office now, and Terry's hasty note said that he'd gotten a call a few minutes ago and left.

Don wished he could put a tail on the other man, but for now, he would have to let that wait. He and Terry decided that she shouldn't risk coming with him to meet with Larry. This would leave her free to do some background checking on Buchmann and on Pierce. He watched her destroy the notes and slip their remains into her pocket. He knew her well enough to know she'd take the papers home and burn them.

He checked his watch. It was going to be a long morning.

Alan hadn't been lying when he'd told Don that he hadn't been seriously hurt, but he hadn't told his son everything. Alan was not a fool. Maybe he wasn't a genius like his younger son, and maybe he didn't spend every day solving mysteries like his older son, but he had lived a long and more interesting life than either of his sons knew, and Alan Eppes knew when things were too coincidental.

His house had been invaded, but nothing had been taken. His son was in prison. And Don, in an alcohol induced confession, had tried to take responsibility for Charlie's recent injuries–injuries that were themselves very suspicious. All of this made Alan aware that there was more going on than he was being told.

He stared at the wall in front of his favorite chair. The wall, adorned with some of his favorite family pictures, was usually a comfort to him. Usually. Now, his thoughts were a mass of conflicting ideas colored by his emotions and his memories. He wanted to help his boys, but there was little he could do, plus he was aware that, if Don knew what he was thinking of doing, he would try to prevent Alan from following through.

A glance at his wife's picture made him remember his promise to her that he wouldn't allow their family to split apart. It had broken her heart to watch as Don and Charlie had drifted apart in the years just before she'd died. When Don had returned to LA, she'd harbored hopes that her boys would learn to be the brothers she knew they could be. She had asked Alan, in a moment of deepest regret, to do the one thing she'd insisted she'd failed to do; help her boys learn to express their love for each other. She insisted that she knew they did love each other, even if they seemed not to know it. She wanted Alan to help them learn to respect each other, and to rely on each other. He'd made the promise. He'd have promised her the moon then, and she knew it. She wasn't so much a saint that she would fail to take advantage of that. She knew Alan enough to know that when he gave his word, he kept it.

He had seen Don and Charlie take the first tentative steps toward the kind of relationship their mother wished for them, but thisCharlie being imprisoned, and Don being mysterious couldn't be helping to cement this fragile closeness they were just beginning to foster.

Alan wasn't without his own connections. He'd spent a lot of years working for the city, and if he had to take advantage of that now in order to secure a little assurance that Charlie and Don would be okay, then so be it. He was less of a saint than his wife was.

He reached for the phone and called a man he hadn't spoken to since Don and Charlie had been young. It took some time for him to reach his old boss, a man named Mason, who, as it turned out, now worked at some upper-level position with the FBI.

Realizing that, he wondered if perhaps he should reconsider. He didn't want Don to think he was interfering. He brushed the thought away. Even if Don did find out, he had to do something and this was all he had. He left a message anyway, hoping Mason would remember him without him having to do too much explaining. If the man called back, Alan would be able to gauge the likelihood of finding help in that quarter.

For now, he just stared once more at the photographs on the wall, hoping against hope that his boys would be all right.

April 19

Charlie stared at the information Buchmann had sent him. A post-it note on a hardcover book read, "A little light reading" The book was The Collected Works of Mark Twain. For whatever reason the book and not-so-explanatory note had been included, Charlie hadn't given it more than a cursory glance.

His eyes remained fixed on the stack of information from which Buchmann expected him to work. He had worked on more complex problems in his life, but rarely something so sensitive. This wasn't what he thought he'd be working on when he'd agreed to Buchmann's proposition. He'd thought there would be high-tech, financial, white-collar crimes. What he was doing now was an analysis based on the research from several sources on the medical records, IQ tests, educational datait was census material from all over the world. Official and unofficial.

If it was terrorism, which was what he had been dreading, he couldn't figure out how this sort of information was useful to a terrorist. The more he read, the more he began to put human faces to the activities he was tracing. School records children. Birth records brought to mind visuals of pregnant women. Medical records sent him back to the hospital as he watched the pandemic flu victims fight for their livesas he recalled asking Don if their mother had suffered

He couldn't stop the visuals, or the tears as he remembered wishing he'd been brave enough to see his mother before she'd diedto tell her that he'd loved her

Charlie had spent more than a little time hunched over the toilet with dry heaves each time he realized what his numbers actually represented. Victims. Each and every one of the numbers was a potential victim for whatever Buchmann was planning. It was getting to be more than he could contemplate. He'd stopped eating. The food was unappealing at best, nauseating at worst. He was getting more and more drawn into the numbers of what he was doing, and more than once, he considered falsifying something.

That idea wasn't worth serious consideration. There were too many variables. If Buchmann became too irate at Charlie's actions, he might forfeit either Don's life or his Dad's, figuring that there was still one of them left alive to hold over Charlie's head. It was getting complicated and convoluted.

Charlie hadn't felt so jumpy in a long time. Every sound startled him. He was no longer losing himself totally in his equations. He was living them, but he was almost too aware of everything that hung in the balance. He'd already caught two sloppy mistakes in Buchmann's data, which had thrown off his own equations. If Buchmann blamed that on him, his friends and family could suffer.

Something rumbled in his stomach at the thought, and he darted for the toilet bowl again, but his lack of caloric intake made such moments unproductive, and for that, Charlie wasn't sure if he should be grateful or not.

He heard a creak as his cellmate shifted in his bunk. Nervously, he tried to quell his heaves, or at least heave quieter. He heard the larger man step down off the bunk, and still his stomach muscles contracted. He heard the sink running, and still he couldn't be silent. It was when the heaves finally subsided that he got his biggest surprise since he'd been incarcerated. He turned to face his cellmate, Mike, to find Mike holding out a cup of water and a damp cloth.

"You ain't been eating, kid. What could you be hurling?"

Gratefully, Charlie accepted the proffered items, and ran the cool cloth over his hot face. He ignored the question and tried to distract the man with an apology. "I'msorry if I disturbed you."

Mike shrugged it off. "It's okay, kid." He gestured to the notes strewn across Charlie's bunk and the cell floor. "You still working on clearing your name?"

Charlie nodded. "Something like that."

Mike turned and headed back to his bunk. "If you'd like a friendly piece of advice, Professor, whoever's got you between a rock and a hard place, you need to shake them off before the rock and the hard place try to shake hands. When that happens, usually the guy caught in the middle won't make it out alive."

Charlie nodded. He'd thought of that. "That, Mike, believe it or not, is not the worst thing that could happen."

Mike stared at him in disbelief, but Charlie just turned his back and returned to his work.

Buchmann grinned the grin of a man who was finally getting everything in life that he had ever wanted. He toasted himself with a snifter full of 100-year-old cognac and sat back in his chair contemplating the ultimate fairness of the universe.

He had once been ruined. Eppes had utterly ruined him, though they had not met. Even now, just the thought of that man's smiling face sent a surge of rage through Buchmann's heart that left his soul in ashes. Buchmann had vowed that, one day, Eppes would pay. This scheme he had devised had made him realize that it wouldn't be one day at all. It would be for the rest of his natural life.

Buchmann imagined the pain he had caused, the upheaval that by now must have eradicated all memory of the life Eppes had had before Buchmann had set his plan in motion. Buchmann had read once that nothing affected the memory so much as pain. When in pain, one cannot remember being without pain, and when the pain fades, one cannot accurately recall what it felt like. He wanted nothing more than for Eppes to forget what life was like before this pain.

He had a few more surprises in mind before he revealed the true extent of his treachery to his victim. Reveal it he would, because, though revenge was a dish best served cold, full knowledge of the recipe would only sweeten the final results.

Special Agent Jonathan Pierce didn't really like how the investigation and prosecution against Charlie Eppes had gone. As he waited to speak to his superior he recalled as much about the case as he could. He'd been unwilling, at first, to look into a case being headed by another agent, but the choice, after all, was not his to make. He did what he was told.

As time had passed, he'd been less and less able to explain away the things he'd done. Wrestling with the professor at CalSci had been unexpected. The interrogation had been unusual as well. At first it had seemed that the young math professor wanted nothing more than to help them find the killer.

His hands snaked out to the pile of books he'd been carrying at the campus. One of the other officers had brought them into the interrogation room. Pierce had hoped to use them to prove the man was the killer, but he couldn't understand them.

Charlie's hand had fallen on the books, but Pierce had prevented him from taking it.

Surprised, and not as outwardly terrified as Pierce had expected, Eppes had tried to explain. "I just want to show you what I've learned about the killer. You see, he's killing the same people again and again"

"You mean you are."

"No." Eppes answered in easy denial.

Pierce leaned forward. "Tell me why?"

"The motive isn't clear from the equation"

"You still know why you did it."

"Ididn't do it."

That was when Pierce had seen the fear. It was there in the man's eyes. A sudden understanding that he couldn't talk his way out of this.

"I want to talk to my brother, Special Agent Don Eppes. Can I call him now? I get" he'd swallowed hard, and Pierce had been so sure that he would crack. "a phone call. I get a phone call, don't I?"

"Listen, Eppes, you confess and I'll let you make the call."

"That's illegal. Coerced confessions don't stand up in court."

Pierce sighed. "Don't play coy, Eppes. We've got you dead to rights."

Eppes had shaken his head. "If that were true, you'd have charged me already." He'd smiled a disarming, almost charming smile, but Pierce had seen the nervousness behind it. "I see why, statistically speaking, you would believe I was your man, but you have to realize I have no motive, no history of violence"

Pierce pulled the chair away from the table and stood leaning over the younger, slighter man. "Listen, kid, you're not seeing anyone. Why would you want to see him, anyway? You wanna kill him?"

"No!"

Eppes sounded horrified to Pierce, and he filed that information away wondering how much of it was an act. Pierce lowered his voice and leaned in closer, looking his suspect in the eye. "You wanna rip his heart out? What did he do to you to make you hate him?"

Charlie Eppes' eyes widened in horror, and his mouth opened in what appeared to be shock. He forced it closed, unable, apparently to make a sound in response to Pierce's questions. Then he looked up at the ceiling as if the answers Pierce wanted would be there. Inhaling deeply, he seemed to gather strength and looked Pierce dead in the eye. "I did not kill anyone. I want to see my brother.

The rest of the interview had gone much the same. Eppes would ask to see his brother, Pierce would try to get him to crack and then he would get nervous and ask for his brother all over again. Pierce believed that the man might have cracked if he'd been permitted to continue, but Kraft had sent in the brother.

The memories were still vivid, and Pierce had no clue as to why they were staying with him. He tried to shake them off as he prepared to see his supervisor.

This weekly status meeting was a waste of time. He really didn't have much new to report, and, until the trial started in six days, he didn't have much to do. The evidence had been gathered. Now it was in the lawyers' hands.

Finally, the receptionist told him to go on through to the boss's office. He opened the door and walked in. "Mr. Mason, sir?"

Mason grinned. "Ah, Agent Pierce! Let's talk about Eppes. I want to be sure he's going to prison for a long, long time."

Pierce shook his head. "I'm not so sure we've got the right guy. I'd like to follow up..."

Mason's eyes widened. "What makes you think I care what you think?" Mason rose from his chair behind his desk and moved to a file cabinet, retrieving a file thick with documents and photographs. "You've seen the evidence. We went over it together as soon as it was brought to my attention."

"That's what troubles me, sir. Who was working on this case? It's not Don Eppes' work. There's no mention in the files you gave me about who worked on it. If it was a research team, they should be identified for when this goes to trial"

"That's need to know, Pierce, and you don't need to know. It's not your concern."

"Not my concern? I'm the arresting officer! I need to know how it was determined that Dr. Eppes is our guy." Pierce had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to get answers, in which case he wanted in on the record that he had some ethical questions about it all.

Mason sat again and tossed the folder on the deck indicating that Pierce should take it. When he did, Mason spoke. "This Eppes character has been under surveillance for a long time. Geniuses often crack up at some point, and we thought it likely that he might. His mother died not long ago, maybe that pushed him over the edge. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that we have the information we need to conclude that Dr. Charles Eppes is a danger to society." He paged through a notebook. "See, since his arrest, there hasn't been another murder."

"Could be coincidence." Pierce said, thinking that maybe Mason had a point. Besides, he'd done his job. His job was to arrest suspects. It was up to the lawyers, judge, and jury to decide guilt or innocence.

"Not likely." Mason smiled and got to his feet again, ushering Pierce out of his office. "You've done a good job. Don't worry about anything else. It's in the hands of the lawyers now." 

Pierce nodded and left. His thoughts coalesced into an amalgamation of memories. Pieces of the file he'd read, memories of the photograph's of the bodies, and, inevitably, just when he'd convinced himself that Dr. Charles Eppes was a psychotic killer, he remembered that look on his face during the interrogation. Eppes hadn't only been adamant that he hadn't killed anyone, which, Pierce had assumed, was an act. No. He had also been overwhelmed and aghast at the very suggestion that he had killed his brother.

Looking back, Pierce realized that there were only two possible reasons for Eppes' reaction. Either Eppes was a cold-blooded killer, or he was innocent.

Pierce had assumed he was the former. The suggestion that he was the latter shook his conviction in his ability to do his job. Of course, that conviction had slipped quite a bit recently. Pierce realized he had a serious decision to make. He had to decide not only if Eppes was guilty or innocent based on the evidence at hand, but also what, if anything, he was prepared to do about it in either case.

As soon as Mason had closed the door behind his agent, a door behind his desk opened. A tall, slim man entered, glaring at Mason. "He suspects something."

"It's going to be fine, sir."

"It's not if that man does any poking around. You were supposed to handle it."

"I did. I told Kraft to put a man on it. He chose Pierce." Mason backed slightly away from the other man as though afraid.

"You should have chosen someone."

"That's not how it's done, Mr. Buchmann."

Buchmann scowled. "Pierce better not be trouble. If he is, you are going to have to deal with it, Mason."

"Deal with" He swallowed. "Iwon't kill him."

"You will if I tell you to."

"You're setting me up." It was all suddenly clear to Mason. Buchmann was going to pin the murders on him if the case against Charlie fell through.

"If I decide to set you up, I won't need you to kill anyone. I'll just need you to go to prison. I can kill Pierce myself, just like I killed the other nine. Just like I'll kill Eppes."

Mason nodded, hoping he hadn't just ended his own usefulness.

To Be Continued


	8. part 8

****

Manipulation Part 8

By Ecri

Don had left the office for CalSci's campus earlier than he'd intended, but he couldn't wait to speak to Larry. He had too many questions, and he was sure Larry and Amita could provide some insight into Charlie's mind–and equations–that he would have missed on his own.

Larry's door was open, so Don knocked on the frame. Larry looked up immediately, and stood, ushering Don into the office and closing the door behind him. "I'm glad you're here, Don."

"Why? Do you have something?" Don was stunned. He hadn't even asked his questions yet.

Larry was nodding. "I think I do. We assumed that the equations Charles was working on were focused on finding the killer, and, indeed, the initial ones do deal with that. But, Amita and I were rechecking some notes that Charles sent us"

"Wait a minute." Don interrupted carefully. "He sent them to you?"

Larry nodded. "Therein lies a tale. In a fit of paranoia and a too intimate perusal of Edgar Alan Poe's _Purloined Letter_, he left these notes for me to find. I took copies to him. We talked briefly, and then, a few days later, I received a letter from him in a purely mathematical form. Amita and I worked it out. He is now working on more than one equation. He believes there is a message hidden in the crimes, but he also believes that there was something else."

"What?"

"He saw that the crimes had stopped and now seemed to hinge on the necessity of having Charles take the blame. He's the fall guy, if you will."

Don nodded. "And?"

"Andaccording to the equations that Charles has authored, there's a likelihood that the perpetrator is orchestrating much more than we think. Charles thinks the person, or people, behind this is aware of his expertise and reputation in the mathematics community. He's aware of Charles' approach. That makes him someone who is familiar with or who knows someone who is familiar with higher mathematics"

Don waved a hand to stall Larry's enthusiasm. "You keep saying perpetratornot killer?"

Larry nodded. "The man behind all of this–orchestrating all of this–is unlikely to have been what people in your line of work would call the 'trigger man'"

Don smiled. "Well, we wouldn't, but go on."

"The perpetrator framed Charles for a reason, and not the usual one. Charles believes he has deduced the motive."

Don waited for Larry to say it; blackmail. It meant that Charlie knew he was being manipulated into giving up secrets

"Vengeance."

Don blinked. "What did you say?"

"Vengeance. Revenge. Vendetta." He held up a sheet of paper with various scrawls across it. One was Charlie's, one had to be Larry's, and, Don assumed the third was Amita's. "Charles believes the motive is revenge. Everything else isextraneous. This case, is, apparently, replete with red herrings and MacGuffins."

Don's questions had been forgotten. This, as his brother would say, was a whole new data set. This put a different spin on everything. He had to get this information to Terry. If that were indeed Buchmann's motive, then maybe she could develop a more accurate profile.

"Thank, Larry." Don said and raced for the door. Larry stared after him, surprised by his abrupt departure. "Don't you want the equations?"

Amita stared at the letter from the Dean. It wasn't really from the Dean, of course. She doubted he'd done more than glance at it, if he'd even done that much. It was a form letter_. Dr. Martin Williams will now be your thesis advisor._ On one hand, she had expected it to happen. On the other, she didn't want it to happen and she couldn't help but balk at the very idea. Couldn't she visit Charlie in prison and have him look over her work there? Couldn't they see that Charlie couldn't be guilty, and so she didn't really need a new thesis advisor? Couldn't they see that it really didn't matter anyway?

With Charlie in jail, she hadn't been able to work on her thesis at all. Her concentration was gone. How was she supposed to get used to taking another man's opinion on something like thison something that she had worked on so closely with _him_? She knocked on the door to Larry's office. She'd made an appointment, and, while she would have felt at ease just walking in on Charlie, she couldn't do that with anyone else.

"Come in!" Larry's voice, slightly muffled, came to her through the closed door.

She entered and waited for acknowledgement, but, like Charlie, Dr. Fleinhardt was deeply engrossed in whatever he was working on. She cleared her throat twice before he looked up.

"Amita! That's right. We have an appointment, don't we? How can I help you?"

"Well, it's aboutmy new"

"Thesis advisor?" He waved a hand. "I know. I've told the Dean that Charles will not be pleased at being replaced like this" He frowned at the strange look in her eye. "Are you alright?"

She ignored he question. "Soyou believe he'll be coming back? That they'll find him innocent?"

He smiled. "Of course, I do. Following Charles's lead on things of this nature, and believe me, I know that, compared to Charles, my own math is somewhat sketchy, still, I had to trynow the results were less than encouraging at first."

"Hang on." Amita interrupted, trying to sort through his words and meaning. "Are you saying that statistics prove that Charlie will be acquitted?"

"No. It showed me statistically that Charlie would be convicted."

She stared at him in disbelief as he smiled at her. "I don't see what there is to smile about."

"Oh, well, it turned out that the theorem could only be proved with the addition of data that I'd completely ignored when I'd computed the variables."

"What data is that?"

"That statistically, most convicted serial killers don't have a brother and several close friends working on the FBI." He rose and moved to her side. "Charles is in good hands. Don will get him out."

She smiled at his faith. "I didn't think physicists had blind faith."

"We do, but only when we can back it up with some sort of evidence."

"How did you do that?" She couldn't understand what he was getting at.

"Do you remember high school geometry? The way you'd prove something was so by manipulating your statements so that you said the exact opposite of what you were trying to prove so you could negate the statement, thereby proving your original statementthat's what I did."

She stared at him for a moment, but before long, she was smiling. Whether in relief that he was here to tell her such nonsense in order to lift her spirits, or because he had convinced her that Don Eppes would never let his brother rot in jail for a crime he didn't commit.

Terry tried every combination and spelling of Buchmann's name but she could find nothing. The man appeared to be an upstanding businessman, and her profile was incomplete, even useless for her purposes.

She's already searched for more information based on Don's description, but that had yielded too many possibilities and no way for her to narrow them down. She had a few photos for Don to peruse when he got back, but she wanted more. She wanted to be able to hand him a solid lead on the man's identity.

Frustrated, she tossed her pen down on the desk. That was when David approached her.

"Terry," he called her name, and, she almost frowned at the tone of his voice. More than a hint of trepidation colored his simple salutation. She looked up at him, and saw that he held himself stiffly, almost as though ready to spring away from her desk if she gave the slightest indication that she couldn't be disturbed. He hadn't looked like this, acted like this, since his first week on the job.

She smiled, hoping that would ease his mind. "Did you need something, David?"

David almost shrugged, but halted the movement midway through. Terry hid a smile, and waited for him to speak.

"I've" he glanced around and lowered his voice before locking his eyes on hers and continuing. "I've been doing some digging"

By the way he was speaking, she could guess what he'd been digging into. "Did you find something?"

He dropped a file on her desk. "It's Pierce."

"You've been digging into an Agent's background?"

"Yeah, well, he's the arresting officer"

"I know who he is." She opened the folder and began to page through it. She read a few lines, and raised her eyebrows in surprise. "He lost his partner."

"Yeah, not too long ago, either. His arrest record went south after that. He started making mistakes that were costing him convictions as well as arrests. He wasn't solving the cases. Lately, he's been moving in, making arrests after someone else does the legwork."

She paged through the file and shook her head. "Who? There's no indication that he's on a team, or that anyone is working closely with him on a regular basis."

David nodded. "Except"

"Except what?"

"In each case, the work was given to him directly by Jeff Mason."

Terry's eyes widened and her voice dropped to a whisper. "The Director? Kraft's supervisor?"

David nodded.

Terry made an immediate decision. She didn't want to involve David, so she'd have to brush him off and do it on her own. Her instincts told her that he wouldn't drop it. If he'd done this much digging on his own, she couldn't dissuade him from continuing with a few curt words and a gruff demeanor. She wouldn't bring him in on this without say so from Don or Kraft.

"Thanks, David. I'll mention this to Don. See what he wants to do about it." She saw the disbelief in his eyes, but he was gracious enough not to push. When he returned to his desk, she grabbed her jacket and left the office. She had a lot of questions to ask a lot of people, and putting together a profile on your boss' boss was going to be a delicate operation.

Alan looked at his son through the partition, and listened to the words he'd left unsaid through the telephone. "You're not sleeping, Charlie."

To his surprise, instead of arguing, Charlie hung his head. Alan tried to think of something that would help. "Do you need anything? Maybe the infirmary can give you a sleeping pill."

Charlie shook his head and looked at his father. "No, that's okay. I don't want to take anything."

Alan nodded, but before he could say anything else, Charlie asked him a question. "Shouldn't you be home resting? Does Donny know you're here?"

Alan smiled. "He's a detective. He'll figure it out."

Charlie couldn't help but laugh, and Alan's grin widened at the sight.

"That's what I wanted to hear!" Alan was trying to sound happy, but in his mind he wondered at his son's choice of words. Charlie probably didn't realize it, but he had been calling his brother 'Donny' through the entire visit. In more normal circumstances, he only did that rarely. It was a name Charlie used in extreme moments. Extreme anxiety, extreme affection, extreme joy, extreme fear

"You're sure you're okay?" Charlie asked.

"I'm in better shape than you are!" Alan waved a hand at Charlie's cast and various contusions. The smile faded. "I worry about you."

"I worry about you, too."

"Me? This robbery waswhat do you call it? An anomaly." He smiled, hoping his son would, too.

Charlie shook his head, trying desperately not to tell his father what he knew about the attack. Knowing what he did, he couldn't think of it as a robbery. He cleared his throat and pursed his lips for a moment against the words he didn't want to say. Finally, he found something innocuous enough to say out loud. "You think so?"

"Don't you?"

Charlie didn't answer. His eyes drifted down to the tabletop and glazed over as numbers pounded on his brain demanding to be let out. He held them back with effort. He knew his father could read him. Maybe he didn't always know exactly what was going on in his mind like Mom had seemed to, but he was an expert in his own way. Charlie's eyes shifted slowly upward until he looked his father in the eye.

"No. I think" He stopped himself again and changed direction. "What would you say if I told you there was no such thing as coincidence?"

Alan tried to laugh, but his son's serious attitude shook him. "You're always going on about random this and random that"

"Those are two different things. Random events and coincidence, while there may be a correlation" Charlie sighed. He was starting to speak faster, going into a lecture mode. Rambling, his brother called it. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'mnot sleeping." It was hard to admit that to his father, but it was easier than confessing that he'd been the cause of those injuries.

Alan leaned closer. "I know. It will be all right. I'm trying to reach someone who might help us"

"No. Dad, don't. This is my fight."

Alan didn't know how to respond. They were a family. They were in this together. Why would Charlie suddenly want to do this alone? "Don't be silly, Charlie"

"I'm NOT silly!" Charlie's face twisted in sudden rage. "I'm" That quickly, his rage evaporated. He just didn't have the energy for it, and those numbers were knocking at his brain again.

"No, of course, you're not, Charlie. I didn't mean it that way." Alan stared at his son, his concern apparent. Charlie was on the verge of something here, and Alan had no clue what it could be. When Charlie flew from sudden rage to deep despair, when his words came faster than Alan could follow and then stopped in mid-thought, Charlie was struggling with something serious. Alan knew his son. Charlie would need to work this out before he could speak of it. The trouble with that was obvious. In the past, if Charlie needed to work something out or think something through, Alan was always nearby no matter what time of the day or night his youngest son decided it was time to unburden himself. Now, Charlie was in jail. There was too much to deal with and not enough time to spend working through any of it. Instinctively, Alan moved his hand, thinking his son needed some human contact, but the partition, of course, wouldn't allow that. Unwilling to withdraw his hand, and hoping Charlie understood the sentiment, he swallowed his own feelings, and tried to reach his son in any way he could. "Charlie, it's all right. Don and I aren't going to let you down."

Charlie half-smiled and half-sobbed as his own hand reached up and pressed against the glass opposite his father's. "No, you never do."

Alan watched as the guards led his boy away. It was time he talked to Don.

Terry glanced around Don's apartment. Not much had changed here. A creature of habit, Don hadn't bothered to alter anything in the apartment for all the years he'd rented it. Of course, being a workaholic in a demanding job, he didn't do much beside sleep here. There was little reason to worry about decorating.

She knew Don was nervous. She could see it. She knew him better than anyone here, perhaps better than he knew himself, and she saw the signs. Tense shoulders, frown, and he kept looking at his watch.

"Don?"

It took him a moment, but finally he responded. "Yeah?"

"I think maybe you better sit down. You won't get that call any quicker just because you're on your feet." She never mentioned Buchmann's name just in case. She didn't want to be the one to tip Buchmann that Don had not kept this all to himself.

She'd given him a new profile based on Charlie's vengeance theory, but they still didn't know precisely who Buchmann was as far as any connection to Don or his family.

"What if he doesn't call at all?"

"It's been days since he last called. He'll call." She wanted to elaborate. She wanted to explain that Don still had what Buchmann wanted, but she held her tongue. He looked at her just then, and read it all in her eyes anyway.

He nodded, and she knew he wouldn't say anymore. This case was making them all paranoid.

Her eyes wandered around the room again wishing for something to talk to him about, something to distract him from the relentless anxiety over his brother's safety, over his father's safety. His apartment, she realized, did reflect some of his personality. The framed photos of his family, and even, she was surprised to note, one picture of Don and herself, laughing uproariously at some now-forgotten witticism, graced the walls and the table tops. Furniture, large and mostly dark colors, stood out in stark contrast to the pale walls. He'd done what he could to make it comfortable, but that was all. It wasn't a home. It was a place to get ready for work, to knock back a beer at the end of a long week, to sleep.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Don, in a sudden and almost violent burst of energy, moved to the stereo and flipped it on, leaving the volume much louder than he usually did. She knew what he was doing. He had to talk, but didn't want to be overheard. This would confuse any devices in or around the apartment.

He sat beside her. "Terry, it's been days since I've heard from this guy. What if he's gotten all he wanted and he's"

"No!" The vehemence of her denial caught them both by surprise, but as he had been about to say those words, Terry, knowing the kind of grief that would follow if they were true, had to stop him. "I mean, he couldn't yet. He's only asked for minor things. He didn't go through all this trouble and kill 9 people–with the potential for many more–just to get a few snippets of information. He has to be after something big"

The phone rang, cutting her off.

Don let it ring twice more, then he yanked it off the table in his rush to answer. Terry picked up the extension and started the trace. "Hello."

A familiar voice laughed. "I see you've been expecting my call."

"I was pretty sure you wanted something else from me."

"Oh, I do."

"I want something first."

"You're in no position"

"I want you to have Charlie released. He's been in there long enough."

"No."

"I've done everything you've asked. I want him out before I give you anything else."

There was silence on the line, and, for the most horrific of moments, Don was certain he'd overplayed his hand. He waited for the click that would end the call, and, possibly, signal the end of his brother's life.

When Buchmann spoke, his tone was cold. "I am in charge here, Agent. You do not decide when your brother has been in there long enough. I do. You've extended his stay. I was planning on having him released after a few more drops, but now, well, I'm just going to have to wait a week or two before I make contact with you again. Whatever happens in the meantime, just remember it was your request that brought it down on him."

Don held the phone to his ear a moment after Buchmann hung up. Anger and frustration welled up inside of him, and he wanted to scream. He felt the phone tugged from his hand, and, before he could understand what was happening, he was holding Terry close and burying his face in her shoulder.

To Be Continued


	9. Part 9

Manipulation Part 9

By Ecri

Don pulled away from Terry's embrace, a mixture of emotion in his eyes and his heart in his throat. Buchmann's reaction had been controlled and precise, but the result would be catastrophic. His threats were vague but effective. Don was terrified. He turned away from Terry. "He won't release Charlie."

"Maybe he will"

"No!" The lump in his throat kept him from saying more, and, as he turned to face Terry again, he saw her turning up the volume of the stereo. He nodded at her, berating himself for his lapse, and dropped his voice to a level he was certain only Terry could hear.

"He's going to hurt Charlie. That's how we play this game. He hurts Charlie, and I do whatever he wants." Frustration set him pacing his apartment. The entire incident seemed surreal to him. How had his life gotten so out of control? Why was Buchmann doing this? He started speaking his thoughts aloud, hoping that hearing the words would help him reason things out. "If this is vengeance, like Charlie thinks, shouldn't I remember havingI don't know..._met _Buchmann before? Put him in prison? Something?"

Terry stayed out of his way, allowing the space. "Maybe it's not aimed at you. Maybe it's aimed at Charlie."

Don scoffed. "How could Charlie have an enemy this powerful."

"Don," Terry whispered. "He works as a consultant to the FBI, to the NSAfor all you know, he works for every alphabet group in the countryif not the world. He's sworn to secrecy. You have no idea what's gone down in any of these cases, or who Charlie may have crossed. White-collar crimes can make for strange bedfellows. He's not going to call you up one day and say, 'Hey, Don, guess what equation I just solved for the CIA'".

"You're right. Of course." He checked his watch. He wanted to see Kraft. Demand that he get Charlie released somehow, but Kraft wouldn't be in the office this late. He had to wait at least until morning. Maybe then he could find a way to get Charlie out of harm's way. He turned his attention to Terry. "We need more than guess work. We need to know more about Buchmann and his motives."

She nodded. "I know."

Buchmann could not speak around the white-hot rage that surged through him. This last call had not gone at all as he'd planned. Eppes should have been falling all over himself to appease Buchmann's demands. Instead, he'd had demands of his own. It was inconceivable that _Agent Eppes_ could make demands of _him_! Buchmann cut off the line of thought. Things had not gone as he'd intended, but that only meant that it was time to play the other Eppes. Perhaps the genius was finished with those equations. If he was, then Buchmann could spring the next surprise on the hapless mathematician.

It took next to no effort at all for him to arrange a visit with Charlie Eppes even in the middle of the night. Much as he had the last time, Buchmann had arranged for the young genius to be drugged and brought to him. This time, it was done while he slept.

Buchmann stood in the doorway watching the young man. The confusion in his face as he awoke somewhere other than his own cell was priceless. Buchmann relished the moment, and walked into the room to confront him.

He watched the surprise on Eppes' face as he recognized him. He saw the false bravado and the silent straightening of shoulders, and almost laughed out loud. The Eppes men were truly pitiable.

"Dr. Eppes, I was wondering how the project was coming along."

"II still need to run a few computationsto check my numbers."

"I'm sure they're accurate."

Charlie shook his head. "I never release the results of a project until I'm sure the equations are accurate."

From the set of Charlie's jaw, Buchmann guessed that to be true, but there was too much fun to be had here. He would see the mathematician squirm.

"Give them to me. I'll have them checked."

"No. They're incomplete."

Buchmann smiled mirthlessly. Charlie Eppes was brighter than he'd imagined. Genius mathematicians couldn't always see the applications of their projects, but Eppes obviously could. "You know what they are and you don't want me to have them."

"I know what they are and I don't want _anyone_ to have them."

Buchmann did laugh now. "This is not a negotiation. There is no room for ideals here. You and I have an agreement." He paused as though considering his options. "Should I pay a visit to your fatheryour brother?

"No!" Charlie tried to raise his hand in a placating gesture, but stopped as though noticing for the first time that he was restrained. "PleaseI'll have them for you. Give me another week"

"You have two days. No more."

He saw the fear in Charlie's eyes and he wondered what the young man would do when he realized there was no way he was going to make his deadline.

Larry worked hard to keep his own spirits up, and, when he could, he would try to check in on Amita. The poor girl seemed lost without Charlie, and Larry wanted to reassure her.

Discussing Charlie's equations early one morning, Larry discovered that Charlie's paranoia–the paranoia that had led him to leave his notes for Larry in the first place–was contagious. It hit him when he and Amita hit a snag. Some of Charlie's notes seemed incomplete.

"Maybe that was as far as he got." Amita's suggestion seemed not to sit well with her.

Larry shook his head as he continued to rummage through the notes and files. "No. I don'tI don't think so. I remember seeing more of this." He began to rummage through the notes on the desk, and the files stacked seemingly haphazardly on the floor.

"Here we are!" He waved a folder in triumph.

"So we misplaced it?" Amita asked.

"No. I was reading this just before my class." He held a page out to her. "See," he said pointing to a yellow post-it note with a name in his own scrawl followed by a telephone number. "That's a message I took earlier when I was on the phone. I took this call moments before I raced out of here to start my lecture, and I left this file on my chair."

"Then how did it get down there?"

"_That_ is a good question." He'd noticed things seemed oddly out of place in his office when he and Amita had met here, but he'd shrugged off the thought. He was hardly meticulous in his own housekeeping. This, however, put a new spin on things. It was painfully obvious that someone had been here and had gone through Charles' work. If someone wanted it, if someone were breaking into the office just to read it, that was information that Don should have.

Decision made, he grabbed his phone, but something made him stop. Shaking his head at the depth of this particular paranoia, he placed the phone back in the receiver and instead stood up, grabbed his jacket and his car keys. "Are you coming?" He asked Amita, though he didn't bother to look over his shoulder to see if she heard him.

Don had never felt so agitated in his own office in his life. It had been a long and sleepless night for him after he'd realized he couldn't get a hold of Kraft until morning. Terry had offered to stay, but he'd needed to be alone. He could tell how much that hurt her, but Charlie had to be his priority now. He'd left home hoping to get away from Charlie, from the stifling world of genius mathematicians, and special tutors. Most of the people he'd trained with at Quantico had had no idea he had a brother.

His assignments with the Bureau since then had been all over the country, and he had reveled in being out of his brother's shadow. He'd called home, of course. He'd made it a habit to call home on Mother's Day, Father's Day, and birthdays, and he had spoken to Charlie, but it wasn't until Kim came back into his life, that he realized how very separate he'd kept everything. He'd never even realized how much he'd resented Charlie when they were kids until he'd come back to LA. Leaving Kim behind, facing Mom's illness, and watching Charlie do his best to avoid processing that information, Don had felt his resentment surge from a pit inside him that he'd thought was gone, that he hadn't missed. Back then, hot, bitter resentment boiled over in his every conversation with his brother. Granted that most of his conversations had been with the back of Charlie's head as the genius scribbled away on a chalk board as though the devil himself were standing beside him forcing him to go on ever faster and faster.

Looking back, Don could still call up the resentment if he concentrated, but it was nowhere near what it was. More and more, it was replaced by a chagrined understanding; Charlie had no control over his downward spiral into P versus NP.

More often than not, he was glad to see his brother, happy to share things with him. More often than not, he felt his relationship with his brother, perhaps tempered by time, perhaps something else, to be changing into what his mother always said it should be. The word _brother_ had, over time, taken a gradual shift in meaning to him. It was no longer a millstone around his neck. It was now a comfort to him.

Seeing Charlie hurt or frightened, as he was seeing him more and more lately, thanks to Buchmann's games, angered Don and awoke the protectiveness he'd struggled against in his childhood when he'd been trying to get away from Charlie and live his own life.

Still, Don had rushed to Kraft's office first thing this morning only to be told that the AD was in conference and couldn't be disturbed. Fuming, he'd returned to his desk and tried to keep himself occupied, but he'd been unable to work. Busywork, desk tidying, and filing were the extent of his accomplishments as he waited for Kraft's secretary to call.

Terry had arrived early and had told him, with nothing more than a light touch of her hand to his arm, that she was there, ready to back him up whatever he decided to do. He thanked her silently, gratitude shining in his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to talk. Words stuck in his throat, probably, he surmised, because his heart was already there. He'd had nightmares about whatever Buchmann might do to Charlie, most centering on his own inability to save his brother. Time after time, dream after dream, Charlie was in danger and Don couldn't help. He was shot, and Don stood by and watched. He was beaten, and Don couldn't get to his side. What felt like half a hundred dreams, all different, yet all the same tore at his already battered psyche until, at 4:23 AM, he'd climbed out of bed and started reviewing what little they had on Buchmann.

He glanced up from his pile of expense reports to check the clock on the wall only to catch a glimpse of someone he hadn't expected to see. He stood and moved with practiced ease through the labyrinth of cubicles until he intercepted Larry and Amita who had just entered.

"Larry? Amita? What's going on?"

Larry sighed. "Idon't know if this is important or not, but well, Amita and I thought" He stopped and looked around, dropping his voice before continuing. "Can we go somewhere private?"

Don ushered them into the conference room, ignoring the blank white boards that stared back at him accusingly. As they'd passed Terry's desk, she knew enough to join them without being asked.

Don closed the door and turned to face his brother's friends. "What is it? Did you find something in the equations?"

Larry shook his head. "Not as such, no." He shook his head again. "Look, if I'm blowing this out of proportion, I do apologize, but, wellI'm very fond of Charles, and I would hate to have kept vital information from you"

"Larry," Don interrupted, though he tried to cover his impatience, "What is it?"

Larry explained about the folder being misplaced and the feeling that someone had been in his office. "There were several things out of place, but that was the most blatant. Nothing was taken as far as I could tell, but things seemed to have been looked atat the very least."

Don's mouth went dry. "Do you know what they were looking at? What the math meant?"

Larry shook his head. "I'm working on it, but I have a lot of Charles' work in my office. I didn't want to leave it unattended. I guess I didn't really do much to protect it."

"No, Larry, you did good. Charlie would have wanted you to keep his work with you."

Larry handed him the file. "This is the one thing that they definitely looked through."

Don took it gingerly, worried that, if Larry were right, he might be ruining any fingerprints they might have found. He paged through it taking care to touch only the edges of the papers. Something caught his eye as he tilted the paper slightly toward the light. "Did you write anything on here?"

"No. I wouldn't want to ruin Charles' work."

"They wrote on it?" Terry asked. "That's a little stupid. Are you sure?"

"Well, they didn't write on it so much as lean on it while writing something else." He angled the page moving it back and forth, left and right, hoping to catch it in the right angle to read it.

"Try a rubbing," Terry insisted, and Amita reached into her bag for a pencil and a clean piece of paper from her notebook.

Don took it and, feeling stupid for using this tired old trick, nevertheless revealed the words imprinted on Charlie's pages. "Too close to truth. Go to source."

"What's that mean? The source of what?" Amita asked quietly.

Larry groaned. "I would think that's obvious. Charles was onto something. They know that, and they know what it is he's close to discovering..."

Don stared at Larry seeing instead his brother in prison, alone, vulnerable. "They want to get to him...stop him...ki..." Don's voice caught on the word, and he spun on his heel and headed toward Kraft's office.

Terry took a minute to thank Larry and Amita, then hurried after her partner.

Don stormed into Kraft's office. He was about to demand to have Charlie released, but what he saw surprised him. "What are you doing here?"

Agent Pierce sat in a chair opposite Kraft's desk. He had a small stack of files with him, and he and Kraft looked like they'd been deep in conversation.

Don turned a questioning look on Kraft just as Terry entered behind him.

"What is he doing here?" She addressed herself to Don, and Don knew that, in Terry's mind, he was now the only trustworthy person in the room. He'd just had the same thoughts about her.

Kraft, who had stood when Don entered, gestured impatiently for them to come the rest of the way into the office. "Shut the door." He gestured to the other chairs in the room, and Terry strategically positioned herself between Pierce and Don.

Kraft sighed, and remained standing. Looking at Pierce, he reached for the files and handed one to Don. "Agent Pierce was just here expressing concern over the evidence against your brother."

"I'm concerned about that myself," Don admitted, as he alternated between glaring at Pierce and paging through the documents in the file.

"Don," Kraft spoke softly, and that, coupled with his use of Don's given name, bought him the full attention of both of the newly arrived agents. "Johnny thinks there's something strange going on, and he wants to work with you. He thinks Charlie is being set up."

Don's eyes narrowed and he glared again at Pierce. "Oh, really."

"Really," Pierce insisted, his eyes contrite. "I saw it in the interrogation room. Eppes, I mean Charlie, was scared, and it wasn't the 'I've been caught' kind of scared. It was more like the 'how did this happen' kind of scared." He sat back in his chair as though needing the support. "The more I go over his reaction to the arrest, his answers to the questions, the suspected motives in the profile," he gestured at the stack of folders on the desk, "the more I realized that someone, somewhere is manipulating this."

Don looked at Kraft who nodded, answering his unasked question. Kraft believed Pierce. Kraft thought Pierce might be able to help them if they brought him in on this. They were working shorthanded. Don hadn't wanted to bring anyone in on this except Terry, and that only because she thought he was breaking the rules. Without David to help out, it would be good to have another agent on the case. Don nodded in return. "Okay." He turned back to Kraft. "The first thing we have to do is have Charlie moved. He's in danger."

Kraft sat, his brow furrowed in concern. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Buchmann didn't take kindly to my suggestion that Charlie be released. He's going to have something done to Charlie. I'm sure of it. I want Charlie out of his holding cell and into protective custody."

"That's going to be complicated, Don. I mean, who do we trust? Which agents do we bring in on this?" He shook his head. "We can't go through proper channels. You said Buchmann had access to the prison surveillance equipment. Who knows what other access he has."

"I know, but I won't risk Charlie's life on this anymore."

Terry stood and went to his side but she spoke to Kraft. "I can think of an agent or two we can trust. If we just use a few of us, we can keep an eye on him, keep him safe."

Kraft shook his head. "We're still talking about unauthorized release. If we get caught, we can all face charges."

"Do you want the leak or not?" Don asked.

Kraft hissed his displeasure. "Fine, but we need to plan this carefully." The agents listened attentively as Kraft began to brainstorm. Don kept checking the time, and hoped only that they would move faster than Buchmann.

****

That night

Charlie lay on his bunk desperate for sleep. He was exhausted. He'd worked so many hours on the equations for Buchmann, he was beginning to see double. When Buchmann had threatened to pay a visit to his father or brother, Charlie's heart had literally skipped a beat. It was the images the threat had produced that kept him from sleep now. He tried to force them out of his mind, but the only way to do that was to cling to the numbers. Without slipping into P versus NP, he had only Buchmann's equations remaining. That was what was in his head. That was what he had to work on.

His mind racing, Charlie wished for daylight. If anything about prison had surprised him, it was how fervently he despised the schedule. He had long been used to keeping his own schedule. Being awake at three in the morning and deep inside some equation was something he'd come to rely on, and being deprived of working on the one thing pounding at his brain made him more often than not spend each night curled in a fetal ball and wishing for daylight.

During daylight hours, he'd developed a talent for hiding what he was doing. His arms, legs, hands, all were adorned with the squiggles and short hand that meant something only to him. With Buchmann's new deadline, however, he had to find a way to keep working through the night.

Lights out was lights outstill, surreptitiously, he took out a penlight and he began to scribble on a note pad his father had sent him. If he could squeeze in a few more hours

The beam of a powerful flashlight hit him at the same instant as a guard called out. "Hey! You! Lights out! What are you doing?"

"Nothing" Charlie called out much as he had as a child when his mom and dad caught him trying to do extra math homework under his blankets.

The guard already had the door to the cell open and came inside. The man grabbed the small light and the pen and paper from Charlie's hand.

"Hey!" Charlie called out and tried to take them back.

The guard pushed him, and Charlie struggled for a moment before a hand reached out from under a blanket on the top bunk and held him steady. A quick whisper was all it took to remind Charlie where he was and how this could be construed. "Fighting with the guards is not tolerated, Professor."

With a gasp, Charlie stopped struggling and tried to explain what he'd been doing. "I'mI'm sorry. I'm a mathematician. I was working on some equations"

"It's after lights out, Eppes." The guard said. He walked to the doorway and held used his walkie-talkie to call his supervisor. Static and a string of words Charlie couldn't understand made the man smile a humorless smile. Charlie instinctively backed away as the guard came back in and took a hold of his arm. "You're going to spend a little time in Solitary."

"What? NoI need tocan't I take"

But Charlie's protestations were useless. The man didn't stop, didn't slow down. He didn't allow Charlie to take anything with him. He simply kept hold of Charlie's arm with a grip like iron and moved down the halls.

Charlie talked the entire way to the maze of corridors. He was trying to explain how sorry he was and how important his work was. The deadline made him desperate and he dragged his feet, tried to pry the man's strong fingers from around his arm, and in general behaved like the child he sometimes thought his family saw in him. The guard didn't even appear to notice. Finally, stopping in an eerily quiet area, the guard opened a thick door, and shoved him inside more roughly than was required.

"You'll stay in there untilwell, until we say otherwise." The man grinned and Charlie got the distinct impression that he enjoyed his work too much.

The door closed with a sound Charlie was sure was ominous only in his mind. Sound, he reasoned, was sound. It could not be altered except by the interpretations of the person hearing it. The logic didn't make the sense of doom dissipate.

He looked around. The room, big enough only for the cot and toilet it held, had no windows, though there was a ventilation fan high up on the back wall. There was a light, but it was immediately shut off, and Charlie was reminded that it was, of course, time for all the lights to be out. There'd be no chance of running any equations now. No pencil, no paper, no lighthe stumbled blindly in the direction of the bed and prayed, as he lay down to sleep, that he would be allowed back into his cell by morning. If he stayed here much longer than that, there was little chance he would finish by Buchmann's deadline.

Charlie rolled himself into a ball under the thin blanket on the bunk, and, though he was exhausted, he found himself unable to sleep. Staring at the darkness, unable to discern even a hint of an outline of anything, Charlie tried to keep his equations going in his head. When he did finally fall asleep, a nightmare woke him. He blinked helplessly in the pitch-blackness, trying to remember where he was. When he did remember, it was almost too overwhelming. His imagination taunted him with images of what Buchmann might do to his father and brother. To Larry. To Amita. Those images would haunt his dreams for a long time to come.

****

Next Day

Don ran a hand over his face and wondered about Charlie. He'd intended to race right to the prison to see his brother, but he knew it wouldn't assuage any feelings of anxiety over Charlie's fate. Buchmann had proved that he could get to Charlie whenever he wanted. If Charlie were fine when Don saw him, that didn't mean he'd be fine two minutes after Don left. Plus, the work he and Terry were doing now, tedious as background checks were, could do more to help Charlie than a thousand visits.

He glanced around the office at the other agents working on various other cases. He'd been sure he knew them all well and that they'd formed one of the best working relationships in the bureau. As they tried to match fingerprints to the ones they'd found in Charlie's office and on the file Larry had brought them, he realized he was now questioning every 'fact' he knew about each of them. Had they been in LA longer than they'd indicated? Had they really been educated where they claimed?

If they could isolate even one print, and if that print could be identified, they might have their first solid lead. Of course, figuring out what Buchmann had against him would go a long way in that regard as well. He didn't remember ever meeting Buchmann. Could he be carrying a grudge because of the fate of a family member? He wouldn't be the first man to go after an agent or law enforcement officer because a son, brother, mother, sister, (insert relationship here) was injured, killed or imprisoned.

Could that be what this was? It seemed an elaborate thing to him. He knew he was missing something. There was some piece to this puzzle he didn't have yet. He smiled as Charlie's jargon came back to him. There was some variable that he hadn't identified. Things seemed logical until you got too close. Then, like a house of cards, it tumbled down taking any hope that he could solve the case down with it.

He glanced up as Kraft came over to his desk. He started talking about some other case for the benefit of anyone listening, but the file he passed over to Terry was the results of the fingerprinting of Larry's folder.

It was the match that had been made that sent Don's imagination towards a dangerous level of paranoia akin to Spooky Mulder's. The fingerprints belonged to Jeff Mason.

****

Later

Terry checked her watch one more time. They were about to do something that could easily end their careers, yet, all she could think about was getting Charlie out of prison and reuniting him with Don. He had balked at the wait, and, in truth, she hadn't been happy about it either, but the timetable was crucial. Kraft was pulling strings somewhere, too far up the chain of command for either Don or herself to see where they started or ended.

She wished they could have brought Alan in on this, just so he would know they were doing what they could for Charlie, but Kraft had insisted no civilians. Don had argued, but had to give it up. Even angry, Don knew how far he could push without jeopardizing everything.

She and Don were supposed to go about their normal duties for the morning and then answer a carefully faked call that would take them to a safe house. There they would wait for Kraft, Pierce, and David to meet them with Charlie in tow.

Don had been against this, but Kraft had had a point. With Don going, it would be too suspicious, too likely to require a check into authorization. David and Pierce, though Don didn't really trust him yet, might be able to bluff. Don's final demand had been that Kraft be there with David in case Pierce proved untrustworthy.

Kraft, slightly disguised, would wait in the car and drive Pierce, Sinclair, and Charlie to the safe house. If Sinclair and Pierce didn't make it out to the car within 20 minutes, Kraft would leave and assume they'd been made.

She glanced at Don as he drove. If Charlie didn't make it to the safe house within the next few hours, she was sure he'd do something drastic.

To Be Continued


	10. Part 10

Manipulation part 10

By Ecri

AD Kraft hadn't gotten where he was by trusting the wrong people. That, even more than the implications of treason or greed that could be the root of it all, was what truly troubled him about the present situation. When Don had first come to him with news of Buchmann's blackmail, he'd been the one to suggest they keep it quiet at first. Don had readily agreed, insisting he'd prefer not to endanger his team.

Kraft had known that Eppes, for all his training, would take this personally and that was likely the reaction Buchmann had counted on. How could he not when his family was involved? It wasn't until Don had told him about the possibility of there being an informant in the department that Kraft had felt his control slipping. Deciding not to tell his people something was one thing. Being unable to do so because there was a chance you couldn't trust them was something else entirely.

Don's distrust of Pierce was not surprising. His almost immediate willingness to trust Kraft's opinion that Pierce could be trusted, could be brought in now, was shocking.

He replayed the last conversation he'd had with Don in his mind. He'd managed to pull the younger man aside after they'd filled David Sinclair in on what was going on.

"You're going to be okay working with Pierce?"

Don hadn't betrayed any emotion. Instead he seemed to consider the question seriously. "I'll never be his best friend, but if you think it's a good idea..." He shook his head, breaking the line of thought. "Look, it's not my first choice, but then I never would have thought that I'd be in this situation to begin with."

Kraft had seen a lot in his agent's eyes then. He recognized the desperation and fear of course, and, having already spent hours wondering what he would do if he'd found himself facing the deal Buchmann had given Don, he wasn't going to pretend that this was easy on the other man. What had surprised him, however, was a gleam of something else, something difficult for him to name.

Determination was part of it. Anger was there, too. He puzzled over it as he watched Don leave with Terry. They'd been gone for twenty minutes before he recognized what he'd seen, and he had seen it before. It was a look common in the eyes of men who had discovered how far they could be pushed and how hard they would push back.

David Sinclair hadn't understood it at all when Don canceled the clandestine investigating he and the other agents had been doing for Charlie's case, but he could tell something was going on. Don was by turns short-tempered, morose, and agitated.

He'd known Don and Terry for awhile, and, though he knew Don probably had very good reasons for putting an end to the investigation, he couldn't stop working on it. He'd grown to respect Charlie over the time the mathematician had been consulting with the FBI. He wouldn't just sit this one out.

David had been pleased with his work checking into Pierce's background, and he had checked the other people Pierce worked with. Terry had seemed intrigued when he'd taken it to her, but until she, Don, Kraft, and, surprisingly, Pierce had begun to spell things out for him, he hadn't been sure that she'd acted on it at all.

Reviewing his notes once more, he found that most of his questions centered around Pierce and Mason. Mason still seemed suspicious to him, but he wanted to do more digging. Now, involved in a clandestine conspiracy to release Charlie from jail in order to keep him from the hands of some manipulative psycho who was trying to buy himself a federal agent, David wondered if there would be enough time to investigate all of this properly.

David was still piecing together some details that he'd cobbled together, and Kraft's explanations, punctuated by Terry's interjections, had filled in the gaps. Now, they all sat in the one place that they were fairly certain couldn't have been bugged: a sort of sub office, a private room tucked behind Kraft's for which only Kraft held a key. Kraft hated using it because he thought it would seem suspicious if his own office was bugged, so it had taken them some time to get inside and set up. Kraft had insisted it be a one at a time thing, and several of them had had to take a long detour to hide their destination.

Now, as Don, still not entirely comfortable with Pierce's presence, explained that they needed to get Charlie out of prison ASAP, David nodded. Rifling through some paperwork, her held out a memo to Don, enjoying it when Don managed his first grin in hours.

"This is perfect." Don whispered, handing the memo to Kraft.

"What is it?" Terry looked from David to Don and back again.

David smiled. "The order came through while you all were in here. The courts want a psychological evaluation on Charlie. He's supposed to be transferred to the prison ward at LA County Psychiatric Hospital tomorrow morning."

Don nodded. "So all we have to do is forge a new order for tonight, and we have a way to get him out."

"By the time the official escort comes by tomorrow morning, we should have Charlie at the safe house." Terry patted David's shoulder. "Great idea."

"I might be able to rescind the official order, or maybe have the escort delayed a bit. If I can, that will buy us even more time." Kraft was jotting down notes in his personal notebook.

When Pierce and Kraft were ready to leave to pick up Charlie, David grabbed the files he'd been putting together. He had a lot to show Don, and he'd be able to do it very soon.

As they neared their destination, the trio rode in silence. Pierce glanced sidelong at David, and tried to remember what it had been like when he had been as young as the other man. Special Agent David Sinclair didn't have the years on the job that Pierce did. He hadn't lost his partner and best friend. He hadn't lost the drive that had brought him to the attention of the FBI recruiters.

Pierce wondered how long ago he'd lost that drive. When had he gotten so poor at his job that he would arrest a man like Dr. Charles Eppes without checking the evidence? Why had he so cavalierly assumed that Eppes must be the killer merely because he'd been given the order to make the arrest? He could see now that he and Kraft had been duped, but why hadn't he asked more questions?

Kraft had given Mason an order, but Mason hadn't passed it on verbatim. He'd learned this from Kraft. He'd told Mason to check it all out and make the arrest if it seemed warranted. _If it seemed warranted._ Four words that Mason had chosen to ignore. It might have meant nothing. Perhaps Mason hadn't seen any urgency to it all.

Of course, it might mean everything. He didn't know if he'd have been more careful if he'd heard those words. He liked to think he would have been, but some little voice inside of him told him things would have gone down the same way. He had lost his passion for his job. He had lost his edge, and it was Dr. Charles Eppes–and his family–who was paying the price.

Pierce had felt burned out on the job for a long time, and he'd made a minimum number of calls, verified a few superficial leads, but, in the end, he'd assumed the physical evidence was irrefutable. He'd never known–or maybe he'd never cared enough to find out–that Kraft had wanted it checked out much more carefully.

Kraft took the last turn toward the jail, just as Pierce sensed rather than saw that Sinclair seemed jittery. "What?"

Sinclair looked at him. "What what?"

"What's got you shaking like that?"

Sinclair stared at him and went still. "You know, Charlie's a good guy. He's done a lot to help a lot of people. He didn't _deserve_ this."

Pierce sighed and whispered under his breath. "Hallelujah Noel be it Heaven or Hell, The Christmas you get you deserve."

_"What?"_

"Greg Lake. I Believe in Father Christmas,"

"We're going to spring a man out of jail whom you wrongfully imprisoned and you're spouting lyrics to Christmas songs?"

Pierce shrugged. "What can I tell you? Those lyrics always stuck with me. It's not a hopeful song. It's about disappointment, about being sold a bill of goods that has little to do with reality, about believing blindly in something that cannot exist…yet…wishing…" He stopped himself, swallowing his words around the lump in his throat. "Forget it."

"Yeah, no problem." Sinclair stared out the window, and was silent for the rest of the journey.

Pierce cursed himself for his lapse. He and Sinclair weren't friends. He shouldn't have said anything at all. If there had ever been a chance of friendship between them, and Pierce wasn't sure there was–it had evaporated when he'd arrested Charlie Eppes. The same was true of the other agents on Don's team. Pierce let out a low sigh. He'd alienated the best team in the LA office because he'd been too blind and stupid to do his job.

He knew that Sinclair had been working hard, albeit without orders, on clearing Charlie. He'd been doing the work Pierce _should _have done. He knew because he'd taken a peek at the files when David wasn't looking. It was a series of leads and surmises on Mason and on Pierce himself.

He couldn't help but think that, if he'd been a slightly better agent, if he'd taken more care, he might have found some of the things that David Sinclair had discovered. Mason was most likely one of their leaks. Sinclair was still working a few leads, tracking down a few contacts, but all signs pointed to Mason being something other than what he seemed. Whether by choice or by coercion, he was not taking seriously the role he had taken as a law enforcement officer.

Charlie wasn't sure how long he'd been in solitary confinement, but he was thinking only about the equations. He'd continued to work on them in his head when he realized he'd be here for some time. Now, he didn't think he could stop. He sat in the middle of the bed, staring at the wall, but seeing only the equations in his mind. Numbers formed and coalesced and only to be scratched out, reformed and reconsidered. Buchmann's threats replayed again and again whenever his tired brain wandered, and for the first time in his life, he found that he had to force his thoughts back to the numbers.

He didn't hear the door open. He didn't hear the guards calling his name. He didn't feel them pull him to his feet and drag him down the hall. He heard a familiar voice call his name, but he didn't dare stop.

He heard voices speaking to each other, but he couldn't allow it to distract him. His father's, and his brother's lives depended on it.

David Sinclair stared at Charlie as the guards brought him out to them. "Charlie?" He called the man's name, but he saw the glazed look in the eyes. Charlie wasn't going to be hearing him anytime soon.

"Good thing you're taking him for a psych exam. He's loony."

"What?" David asked, forgetting his desire to avoid any small talk and get out quickly.

The guard chuckled. "Crazy, nutty, any word you want to use. Sits around all day mumbling numbers."

Swallowing any visible concerns so as not to tip the guards that he was truly worried for the genius, David returned to Charlie and Pierce noting that Pierce was staring at Charlie. Charlie was moving from side to side, mumbling numbers and words that David recognized as mathematical terminology only because of his recent association with the math professor. He herded Charlie between himself and Pierce. Desperate to keep some physical distance between Charlie and this place, he had to fight with himself not to run.

"Charlie, come on, man, we need you with us." He whispered the words, hoping Charlie would come around.

He turned to Pierce. "You got his stuff?"

"Yeah, but I don't see why you want it."

David shook his head. "I don't. He will."

"He doesn't even know _we're_ here." Pierce didn't hide his impatience.

David scowled. "Yeah, and if it's not temporary, you get to answer to Don for that." He saw Pierce shudder at that concept and felt a surge of pleasure. He turned his attention back to Charlie. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go." He led CalSci's resident genius out to the car. He would try to snap Charlie out of this, whatever this was, but he had a feeling it wouldn't help. He tried to think of the right words to break this to Don.

The drive to the safe house was uneventful, once they got Charlie in the car, though at one point, hearing sirens behind them, David had thought that they'd been found out. He was about to tell Kraft to step on it, when the cars sped by on the cross street following a late model sedan being driven by a teenager with purple hair.

He heard Pierce laugh at his unease, but he ignored it.

"Charlie, we're almost there. We're taking you to see Don." He'd kept up a litany of words to Don's brother, but he wasn't sure if Charlie had heard any of it.

Pierce had stopped laughing, but his words weren't welcome. "He can't hear you. You're wasting your breath."

David opened his mouth to say something about that, but Pierce waved him off. "Oh, I know. I'm in trouble with everyone who ever knew the kid. Look, I'm sorry. I did what I thought was right, but…well, it wasn't. I guess I probably knew that all along, but there isn't anything I can do about it now. I'm trying to make up for it."

David didn't reply. They rode in silence except for Charlie's mumbling. Number after number slipped from his mouth, only now, when he didn't like what he was thinking, he was beginning to hit himself. The first loud slap to his leg, David let ride, but the second worried him. He tried to get Charlie to stop, and when he hit himself in the head, David grabbed him by the wrist to keep him from hurting himself. "Charlie! Stop it!"

The strength in Charlie's blows, and in his struggles, surprised David. Sure, Charlie rode a bike everywhere and was, by any definition, healthy, but this...he knew there was strength in desperation, but Charlie's seemed superhuman somehow. Of course, David reasoned, it was likely that it seemed that way because Charlie wasn't afraid of hurting David. How could he be when he didn't even seem aware that David was there? David on the other hand, was struggling to avoid inflicting any damage at all on his friend, and that was only partially because of what he thought Don would do to him if he did.

"Charlie!" David called again as Charlie managed to smack himself in the head once more.

Charlie still didn't acknowledge him, but David could see desperation and fear in the other man's eyes. The one thing he wanted to see, recognition, was frighteningly absent.

Just as Charlie was becoming too much of a handful for him, David saw a house up ahead and squinted at the numbers on the front. "That's it."

Kraft nodded and turned into the driveway and on into the garage. As soon as he had the car inside, the door slid closed, and Don and Terry appeared.

Don stared out the window of the safe house. He shook his head. "I should have told my dad."

"We couldn't do that. It would have put him in jeopardy, and besides, it's not the most relaxing way to spend a day, worrying if his sons are on the run or safe at some location he can't know about." Terry insisted. She placed a hand on his arm. "Buchmann is trying to control you. You don't think he's ignoring something as obvious as your father, do you?"

"I still should have." He pulled something from his pocket and stared at it, and Terry smiled when she saw what it was. "I wondered where that went."

Don smiled, too, though it was a melancholy smile. "I took it out of its frame so I could carry it with me." He turned the photo–the one Terry had noticed was missing from his desk–so they could both look at it. "He's so happy here."

"So are you." Terry reminded him.

"Yeah." Don's smile grew. "He was excited about the case. My dad insists he's been trying to impress me all his life." He bit his lip for a moment before speaking again as if that would hold in his emotions. It seemed to work. He got himself under control, and turned to look Terry squarely in the eye. "How can he not know how much he impresses me?"

Terry shrugged. "I can't tell you how Charlie's mind works."

"Yeah, but after all this time, you'd think I would be able to tell you that." His gaze fell to the floor, and he considered how he'd failed Charlie. He should have been able to keep his brother safe. He should have been able to protect him from whatever maniacs touched his own life. He said a silent prayer for his brother's safety and vowed that, as far as his brother's safety was concerned, he would never fail again.

Don was about to say something else, when he broke off and squinted into the distance. "They're here." He hit a button on a key ring he was holding in his hand and the garage door opened. He led the way out to the garage even as hit the button a second time closing the door.

"Charlie!" Don called as he neared the car.

David got out first. "Don, hang on. Don't overwhelm him."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Look, he's been sort of…lost in an equation or something since we picked him up. The guard said they had to drag him all the way from solitary…"

"Wait! Solitary? _Solitary confinement_? Why was he…" He reached past David and into the back seat. "Charlie?"

His eyes wide, his heart breaking, he stared at his genius brother. He saw every new bruise, every new cut. The still bleeding wounds on his wrist and hand seemed odd, somehow, like the product of torture. He could think of nothing that could cause wounds like that accidentally, but it was the chains around his wrists and his ankles that stopped him cold.

He pulled himself out of the car leaving Charlie talking to himself as he glared at David and Pierce. "Why the chains?"

David slowly exhaled. "I was going to take them off in the car, but he was struggling too much. I couldn't get the key close to the lock."

"Struggling?" He turned back to his brother. "Charlie?" He whispered now, awed by what he was seeing.

His brother's face was bruised, and the pallor, a sickly white, seemed to accentuate it. The cast, as well as the skin of his other arm, were smeared with blood and...numbers? Equations written in red ink...no, not ink. _Blood?_ He swallowed and turned his attention to David, fury tainting his words. "What the hell happened?"

"He was in solitary. I don't know why. Discipline was all they said." David held up his hand to forestall Don's questions. "The thing is, he's been mumbling equations since we picked him up…and…"

It was his hesitation that galvanized Don.

"And what?" Don's eyes were wide, his tone demanding.

"He's been hitting himself…"

Don made a sound in the back of his throat halfway between a groan and a sob. He turned to Charlie and leaned into the car taking hold of his brother's arm and leading him gently out of the back seat. He spoke a never-ending series of soft words pitched so only Charlie could hear him as he led his brother, broken and bruised, into the house.

Once they were all inside, Don eased Charlie into a chair and knelt before him, his eyes scanning his brother's body and automatically assessing his injuries. He wanted to rip open the hideous orange jumpsuit to check for more injuries, but he had to reach Charlie first.

"Charlie? Come on, now. I need you to snap out of it." Frantically, he searched his brother's eyes for some cue that he was still in there.

Charlie's lips had not stopped moving, but Don could only hear a word or two every few minutes. His brother whispered a series of numbers more hurriedly than the others, and then brought his hand up and smacked himself in the head violently enough that the others in the room jumped back.

Don immediately took Charlie's arm, thankful that it hadn't been the arm with the cast. Charlie could have given himself a concussion. Don spoke louder. "That's enough, Charlie! Snap out of it! Come on." Don saw a slight tremor course through Charlie's body, and he tightened his grip on his brother's wrist. "That's it, come on, Charlie." He coaxed his brother back from whatever abyss was staring back at him.

Charlie blinked. "Donny?" The voice was little more than a croak, so painfully dry was that throat. He moved slowly, but he raised his head and saw–actually saw–his brother. "Donny!" He threw himself at Don and hugged tight.

Don slipped his arms around his brother's shoulders, returning the embrace and laughing in relief. "How are you doing, Charlie? You had me scared."

"How did I get here? I was alone…"

"Why were you in solitary confinement?"

"The guard took my notebook. I was in the middle of something…it was after lights out…I think he thought I was fighting…" Panic suddenly settled in Charlie's brown eyes. "Wait a minute! I can't be here! Where am I? I have to go back! If I don't have the equations by the deadline, Buchmann will…" He stopped speaking, his mouth falling open in apparent horror at what he'd said.

Don's eyes narrowed and his grip on his brother's shoulders tightened. "Buchmann? How do you know Buchmann?" Don continued to squeeze his brother's shoulders in his anxiety over hearing Charlie speak the name of their tormentor.

Charlie wouldn't meet his brother's gaze, and he began to fidget slightly. Don's tightening grip couldn't avoid the bruises for very long.

"Ow…" Charlie's voice sounded small, almost child-like, as it had at the Koi pond during the P versus NP fiasco when Don needed answers Charlie couldn't provide.

Don loosened his grip, but he lowered his head until he forced his brother to look him in the eye. "Tell me how you know him."

"He…Buchmann…came to me. He took me from the infirmary…"

Don listened in rapt attention as Charlie told his tale of meeting Buchmann, of the deal that had been made, of the work he had been doing.

"Are you saying he spoke to you privately in the prison?"

Charlie shook his head. "They said something about transportation, so I think they drugged me and took me somewhere."

Don nodded filing away the information. They'd have to investigate the involvement of prison employees carefully. It might even go up as high as the warden.

He looked at Charlie, who was now looking around himself in agitation. "I had notes...where are my notes? Donny! Where are my notes!"

David stepped forward holding the books he'd forced Pierce to retrieve from Charlie's cell. "It's okay, Charlie. We got you covered."

Charlie was visibly relieved. "He said," Charlie continued, clutching his notebook to him as though it contained the meaning of life, the cure for cancer, and the answer to every unsolvable equation that had ever existed. "He said that if I didn't work for him, he'd hurt you and dad…and even Larry and Amita."

Don nodded. "He was running the same scam on me. Said he'd make sure you and Dad were hurt, or that you'd be convicted if I _didn't _help and released if I _did_."

Don saw then that Charlie's hands were shaking. The tremors raced up his arms, and down his back, and before his eyes, he saw his little brother trembling so violently that the chair he was sitting in was shaking. Don took Charlie's hands and found them ice cold. He turned to Terry. "Get a blanket. I think he's going into shock."

In another minute, Charlie, with a blanket draped around his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands, was again insisting that he was fine.

Don nodded, but wasn't sure if he believed it. He saw that Charlie was still and silent and deep in thought. It worried him because Don recognized that look. "What? What are you thinking?"

"Buchmann…he was never…he was using us…"

"We know that…"

"But maybe it wasn't just to play us off of each other. Maybe he was using us against someone else. The only other person who would be hurt by our..." he shrugged before finishing helplessly. "...predicament."

"Dad?"

"I don't know why, but I'd bet Buchmann has him."

Don tried to reason through that theory. He shook his head as though the physical action would allow him to dismiss the thought. "Why would Buchmann be after Dad?"

Charlie shrugged, but Don could see the look in his eyes. It was the look his brother wore when he was close to solving an equation but didn't like what the answer was telling him.

"Charlie, your work on the murder investigation...what were you learning?"

Charlie blinked a few times and Don could see that genius brain trying to halt in its tracks and consider Don's seemingly unrelated question.

"You know most of it. The victims were likely to be similar in background and general description to people we...or rather I know, since I was the intended suspect."

Don shook his head. "There's more, isn't there?"

Charlie looked away, and Don all but groaned. He had nothing but sympathy for his brother, wanted nothing but to have Charlie safe and happy, but he didn't have time to coax the information he needed out of him. He inhaled hoping he'd find the words to do just that, when Charlie surprised him.

To Don's surprise, Charlie shook off the frightened look in his eyes, straightened the stoop of his shoulders, and looked Don squarely in the eye. "There were a series of mathematical...I guess you could call them phrases...they were code. There was a message hidden in the clues, a message that spelled out Bucmann's name. I'm sure there would have been more if he'd had the time to keep killing. He seemed a little disappointed that he hadn't had the time to finish his message..."

Charlie took a step closer to his brother. "I'm fairly certain he was beginning to spell out a name...our name. Dad's name." He swallowed and the fear was momentarily back before being swept away, locked behind a door Don was sure would need to be torn down when this ended...if this ended.

Don nodded taking this all in. "Charlie, how easy would it be for someone to look at your notes and see how close you had come to working out this code?"

"A mathematician?"

"No."

Charlie shook his head. "I don't see how anyone not used to working seriously with higher mathematics could do it at all."

Don nodded. That's what he'd expected. It also made him wonder how Jeff Mason had managed to understand enough to know that Charlie was 'getting too close'. Mason had to be more than he appeared, but was he a mathematician? A genius? Even Larry hadn't found this code, and Larry was no dunce. So...what did that make Mason?

"How the hell did this happen?" Buchmann demanded as he threw the bottle of vodka he'd been holding across the room. It shattered sending its expensive, imported contents all over the carpet and even onto the wall.

"Sir, we…"

"I will not listen to your excuses!" He fumed. His team had let him down. Both Don Eppes and Charlie Eppes were missing. He could find not a clue to their whereabouts.

He called Mason, but got no answer. He called a few others of the agents and officers he owned, but none knew where either of the Eppes brothers had gone.

"Fine." He spoke the word more to himself than to his lackeys. "I will just move up the time table. "Prepare the car."

The sleek, black limousine had been parked across the street for awhile. Alan had seen it pull up, and had assumed someone in the neighborhood had hired it for a special occasion. Realizing it hadn't moved, and that no one had gotten into or out of it, made him suspicious. He waited, watching it, feeling like an idiot. He had never wanted to become one of those conspiracy-minded people who mistrusted everything. But his youngest son was in prison, framed for crimes he could never have committed, and his oldest son was a tight-lipped FBI agent unwilling or unable to let his father know if there was any further investigation going on. With all of that, and, having lost the one person in his life who helped him to keep things in perspective, it was becoming increasingly difficult to deny the feeling that the world plotted against him.

The car was just sitting there. There was no crime in that, yet, the longer it did, the more uncomfortable Alan became. He couldn't report it. There was nothing to report. He couldn't even call Don. He'd feel like an idiot trying to explain his unease. He couldn't march over there and demand to know what was going on. Most likely, the driver was early or was killing time before picking up a client.

He'd stared out the window, trying to avoid being seen watching the car by hiding behind the curtain for some time before, disgusted with himself, he turned on his heel and retreated inside the house. There was plenty he could do inside the house to keep his mind occupied, so he did it. Laundry, dusting, vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, myriad tasks kept him, physically occupied. His mind, however, remained on the limousine across the street.

Furious with himself, he stopped dusting, checked his wallet, grabbed his keys, and headed out to his car. He would take a drive, find somewhere else to be, and when he returned, the car would be gone. Resolved to this plan, he drove away. His tendency not to put faith in conspiracy theory, no matter how suspicious he was of that car, never allowed him to contemplate that his leaving was what the occupants of the car were waiting for.

Alan drove around for half the day, returning to his home just after sundown. He was happy to see the black limo was gone, and chided himself for being ridiculous. He'd spent the day with Art and the friendly banter was enough to drive the fear away. He knew his eldest son's paranoia was rubbing off on him, and he didn't like it.

He hadn't dared to mention to Art that he was trying to escape a sinister stretch limo that had been parked on his block. He felt silly just thinking about it.

He pulled his car into the driveway and happily walked to his front door. It wasn't until he had hung up his coat that he realized he wasn't alone. Two men appeared from the shadows, and Alan, still standing near the open closet door, grabbed an umbrella and came out swinging. The first man was taken by surprise and went down, winded by the blow. The second was prepared and caught the umbrella, twisting it down and tearing it from Alan's grasp. Alan was looking around for another weapon when he felt the cold kiss of steel at the base of his neck and heard the sound of a gun's safety being pulled back.

"Don't move again or it will be the last time you do."

Alan froze in his tracks, his arms slightly away from his body.

"Good."

Alan felt the man shift and the other man came forward, taking Alan's wrists and roughly tying them together. Before Alan could think of a question it was worth risking his life to ask, the second placed a cloth over his nose and mouth. The chemical odor of the rag was enough to force Alan to struggle, but it was a short-lived attempt as he slumped, unconscious, in the arms of his captors.

Alan became aware of several things at once. He was incredibly thirsty, he could see nothing, and his head was ringing. He put a hand to his head, but there were no bumps or bloody patches, so he presumed the headache must the aftereffects of whatever chemical had knocked him out. A movie, he thought. This was just like a movie. He'd been abducted from his home. He tried to make out the room, but it was pitch black.

He'd barely had the chance to go through his recent memories in an attempt to piece together what had happened, when he heard the creak of a door and the sound of several sets of footsteps. Then a loud click followed almost instantly by the lights coming on forced Alan to blink rapidly at the sudden change.

He heard a voice before he could quite focus.

"Good, you're awake. We have a lot to discuss."

Alan stared at the man, surprise plain on his face. "Jeff? Jeff Mason?"

To Be Continued


	11. part 11

As an apology for taking so long, I've posted two chapters! I hope you all enjoy them!

Manipulation part 11

By Ecri

Don's cell phone rang and he flipped it open. "Eppes."

"I understand you've broken your brother out of his holding cell."

Don stood and took a step away from his brother, pointing to his phone for the benefit of the others. The Agents immediately understood. Buchmann was on the phone. As soon as he saw them moving into prearranged positions, checking windows and doors, he returned to Charlie's side.

"Yeah, well, I had to get him away from you." He put as much venom into the reply as he could enjoying the safe feeling from knowing that Charlie wasn't in that maniac's hands. Possessively, Don put a hand on Charlie's shoulder as though to assure himself that Charlie was actually here.

"Too bad. It made me move up my timetable. Your father is now my guest."

Involuntarily, his grip tightened as Buchmann confirmed his brother's guess about their father.

"Let him go, Buchmann!"

Charlie almost leaped out of his seat, but, with one hand, Don held him in place.

"I will let him go when I have you and your brother in my custody. That's the deal. You two for him."

"I can't promise...

Buchmann cut him off. "Do as I say. You and your brother"

"Not Charlie! I'll come myself."

"You and Charlie or I kill your father the moment I see you. I'll call with details."

"Wait!"

It was too late. Don stared at his phone. "He hung up. He's got Dad."

Terry was at his side in a moment. "He wants to set up a trade." It wasn't a question.

Don nodded, but before he could say more, Charlie spoke.

"Donny, what did he say? Is Dad all right?"

Don shrugged. "He didn't let me talk to him." He took a step or two away from Charlie, aware of his brother's worried stare, and of the anxiety rolling off him in waves. He turned and looked at him then, his brother, the terrified genius looking younger by the second. "We'll get him back, Charlie." He looked at Kraft, who'd stood back for all this time, letting the Eppes brother have their less-than-perfect reunion.

"He's going to call back with details...an exchange. Charlie and me for Dad."

Kraft shook his head. "I can't allow that."

Don didn't want to listen. "This isn't official. You can't stop me."

"It won't go down the way you want it to, and we don't have enough agents to keep you safe."

Don bristled at the images that Kraft's words brought to mind. He was reluctant to release what little control he had over the situation. Desperate to make his point, knowing that most agents could be detached about this sort of thing until it was put in a more personal context, Don threw a question at his boss. "What would you do?"

Kraft sighed, and Don could see that the man was having trouble reconciling the answer to that question with regulations, rules, and his own desire to keep the team safe. In the end, he only nodded. "I suppose I'd do what you're planning to do."

Terry took charge then, and started herding the group towards the kitchen. "Okay, you boys need to eat something."

The brothers opened their mouths to protest, but she cut them off with authority. "I don't want to hear it. You both look like you haven't slept or eaten in months." She and Don had made sure the house was well stocked earlier with sandwiches from the local deli. Those, along with various snack foods, were crammed into the refrigerator. Terry had even taken the time to make sure that delivery/take out menus from local restaurants were tacked up by the phone.

Terry spread sandwiches and drinks for them and for Kraft, Pierce, and David as well as for herself across the dining room table. Don smiled at her gratefully, but his eyes never strayed from Charlie for very long. It was like he was drinking in his brother's presence.

Don noted that not only did Charlie's hands still shake as he ate, but also he ate faster than Don had ever seen. His brother seemed ravenous. He exchanged a look with Terry who shrugged, but slipped a second sandwich she'd bought for him over to his side of the table.

Don watched as Charlie reached for it as though not realizing how much he'd eaten. He wasn't stupid enough to think that his brother hadn't been fed while being held in lockup, but he knew Charlie. When stressed or working hard, it was the little things–like eating, drinking, and sleeping–that suffered most. Of course, Buchmann had men on the inside. Charlie, while in solitary confinement, might well _have_ gone without food.

Surreptitiously, he slid an open bag of chips in Charlie's direction amazed, yet pleased, when his brother reached for that as well.

He checked his watch wondering when Buchmann would call, and how he would get the man to leave Charlie out of this. There was no way he was going to put Charlie in harm's way again.

Alan stared at his former employer. Disbelief raced around his mind. "What's going on?"

Mason sat in a chair across from the small cot upon which Alan had been placed when he'd been brought in. "It's a long story, Alan, and I'm sorry you ended up involved in it."

"That's not an answer."

Mason smirked. "No, I suppose it's a prelude to an answer." He sighed. "It wasn't supposed to go this far, Alan."

"Don't make me ask you again, Jeff."

"I had you brought here for your own protection," Mason admitted.

"You're going to have to start at the beginning, because that sounds suspiciously close to the end." Alan waited, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. As Jeff explained, Alan's concern for his children grew.

"Jeff, you're...what do they call it? Deep undercover..."

Jeff offered a humorless smile. "I guess that's a good enough term. Buchmann thinks he owns me. Instead, I keep tabs on his operation. We're trying to amass enough evidence to put him away permanently. He's slippery, though, and he has a loyal bunch working for him."

"So, my boys are involved because Buchmann found out about my involvement..." His eyes widened. "I have to call them. I have to warn..."

Mason shook his head. "They're safe enough."

"No! They don't know what they're dealing with!" His fear for his boys turned to anger at his former friend and supervisor. "Just like I didn't know what I was dealing with when I worked for you. It was supposed to be safe!"

"It was..."

"If it was, we wouldn't be sitting here now!"

"You're here for your own protection. I'm going to try to reach Don's supervisor and let him know, but, frankly, I haven' been able to find him."

Alan stared at the man he'd once known, and he wondered how things had fallen apart so quickly.

While they ate, Terry tried to distract Charlie to keep him from realizing what he was doing–how much he was eating–and getting self-conscious. "So, what's our plan?"

Don shook his head, and glanced at Charlie. "I don't want to give Buchmann what he wants, but I don't see a way around it."

Charlie shook his head just as he was about to take another bite of his sandwich, but then he froze. "Wait a minute..."

Terry watched in confusion. Charlie wasn't moving, his eyes were wide, and then, with a suddenness that startled her, he was bolting from his chair toward the stack of his books and notes. She glanced at Don, but he shrugged, though he was worried enough about Charlie to follow him.

Charlie tore through the books and notes obviously looking for something specific. Triumphantly, he held up the Twain book that Buchmann had sent to him. "He's been teasing us with it all along! Making us call him Buchmann, sending me a book of Twain's workDon't you see? Mark Twain's real name was Samuel Clemens. He's telling us he's using an alias." He looked his brother in the eye. "Don't you remember?" Charlie was exasperated by Don's confused stare. "Buchmann is German for _Bookman_."

Realization bit Don in the face. Buchmann"That was what the guy's nickname was! The Bookman! He was notorious for settling accounts' as the euphemism went at the time, financially and otherwise. That's why we got nothing on Buchmann as far as priors! He must have set up an alias, or several."

Don looked at Charlie. "I'm blanking on the rest of his name." Charlie's elation diminished and Don clapped him on the shoulder. "It's okay, Charlie. We can run a search on the nickname." He looked to David.

David nodded. "I'm on it." He stepped away and started making calls on his cell phone.

"Sowe know who he is, and that he apparently has a grudge against your father. But why go through all of this? Just for revenge? What could your father have done to him that would justify this kind of revenge?" Kraft asked.

"It was a long time ago. He was going through some records at work, and found somethinga discrepancy I guess. It had something to do with building permits and contracting bids...I was never too clear on what it was. Dad pointed it out and his boss was taking the credit and being called in to testify against someoneDad's old boss was getting the glory and getting to meet a lot of peopleeven taking the stand at the trial"

Don had a firmer grasp of the details having been much older than Charlie at the time. He looked Charlie in the eye. "Dad thought it should have been him getting the attention, meeting the people, but Aunt Irene said he shouldn't be in a business where you meet people like The Bookman."

Terry smirked at Don. "I wonder what she'd think of your job."

Don smiled, but went on. "I remember something weird about that trial."

"What?" Charlie leaned closer to his brother in anticipation.

"Dad got a letter. Mom told me later that it was connected to the case. It shook him up. He wouldn't let us out of the house for a while. He even called the police"

"Oh, yeah!" Charlie nodded in excitement. "I remember that now! He looked so afraid all the time, and he wouldn't even let mom go out of the house without him. We either all went out or we all stayed in. He thought someone"

Don stood up, cutting Charlie off. "Not someone. Buchmann!"

"You remember him?"

"No, but it has to be...and" His brow furrowed in concentration, but he couldn't pull the memory to the surface.

Terry watched, concern in her eyes. "Hey, come on. You were just a kid. You may not have ever heard the whole story"

"Wait," Don stared at Charlie for a moment, and Terry had a definite feeling of déjà vu from just moments ago.

"Dad got a letter...he and Mom were scared. There were some policemen...must have been agents...and there was a book then, too."

"Twain?" Terry asked.

Don shook his head. "No...it was...something old. I remember the book looked ancient, and the name wasn't familiar.

Terry heard Charlie's whisper, even as she stared at Don for confirmation.

"It was _The Revenger's Tragedy_," Charlie said as the Twain book fell from his hands.

Don nodded. "Yeah, that was it."

"Never heard of it." Terry admitted. She watched the brothers carefully, but she was better able to pick up on Don's mood. He was oddly calm, and she wondered if it could be because he was mulling over the past or because Charlie was here with him instead of separated by distance, the law, and iron bars.

"So this is revenge because he thinks your dad helped put him in prison? Bit over the top." David insisted as he dialed another number on his phone while scribbling something in his notebook.

Terry shook her head. "It doesn't need to make sense to us. If he's crazy enough either to kill or to have someone else kill nine people for him, then the reasoning may not make sense to anyone but him." She looked at Don. "I'd love to know how he planted the physical evidence."

Don shrugged. "Can't be hard. Lots of people are in and out of Charlie's office, so the carpet fibers are easy enough. The hairwell, we lose something like 100 hairs a day. If he got the fibers from the carpet, he could be fairly certain that any dark, curly hairs he picked up in there were Charlie's."

"And the fingerprints?"

"That's a little harder, but Charlie's prints weren't found on things like doorknobs and windowpanes. It was on movable objects like glasses, bottles...besides you can transfer a print from one object to another. All he had to do was find a print on something in Charlie's office and move it to something at the crime scene."

She stared at him incredulously, but he just offered a smile in return.

"Donny?" Charlie's voice sounded small and scared, and it had the immediate effect of bringing Don to his side.

"What? What is it Charlie?"

Mutely, he showed Don where the binding on the spine of the Twain book had torn when he'd dropped it. He saw a small slit had been made to allow several sheets of paper to be hidden there in the spine and the jolt from hitting the floor had apparently jarred them loose. Charlie, pale as a ghost, handed the sheets to his brother and waited.

Don scanned them, and then, not believing what he'd read, slowed down to read them more carefully. "This is aI don't even know what to call ita game plan? An outline?"

Terry took the papers from Don. "It's everything that's happened so far" she inhaled sharply as she got to the last paragraph. "It says here that he will destroy your father's life."

Don nodded. "Not if I can help it.

Hours had passed and Don wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle. What was keeping Buchmann from calling? He sighed, leaned back his head slightly against the back of the sofa and rubbed his left hand across his eyes. His right hand was numb, trapped as it was beneath his sleeping brother's head. They'd been talking, each taking comfort from the other's presence, but Charlie's exhaustion had caught up with him. That, on top of the big meal, and he was ready for a nap. Don had sat down wearily and laid his arm across the back of the sofa, and, in the middle of a sentence, had felt Charlie's head tilt back and hit his arm. Cradled now by his upper arm just at the shoulder, Charlie was in a deep sleep. He'd tried to ease out from underneath his brother in the hopes that he could stretch Charlie out on the sofa, or, better yet, herd him upstairs to use one of the bedrooms. That maneuver had only managed to slide his arm down further trapping it at the elbow. Rather than risk waking Charlie, he'd decided to live with it.

He tried periodically to ease Charlie over a bit and had managed so far only to move his brother's head closer to his own chest almost tucked beneath his chin.

He didn't much care about the numbness or the pain that he knew would come when circulation finally returned to his arm. He wouldn't dare disturb Charlie now if only because the contact assured him that Charlie was alive and well. Both of the Eppes boys were unwilling to be parted from one another at the moment.

David came into the living room flipping his cell phone closed as he did. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but Don just waved him over. Terry, Kraft, and Pierce joined them as Don whispered to David. "What have you got?"

David didn't have to consult the notebook in his hand. "The Bookman's been busy. That initial arrest that your father instigated when he found the discrepancies in the city's ledgers implicated him in a kickback scheme and a rip off of city funds under several phony companies. The Bookman has since served his time, and reclaimed his position as a criminal kingpin. Some say he was still running things from inside.

"There are rumors that he has more federal, state, and local employees on his payroll than anyone else in the world. Trouble is, that one arrest was the only one that ever stuck. No one's ever been able to prove anything since then." David glanced down at his notes, though Don suspected it was only to buy time.

"What is it?"

"I found out that everyone connected with his arrest, everyone except your father, has died within the last year." He looked Don in the eye. "Can't be coincidence."

"No. It can't." Don agreed. He stiffened slightly as Charlie shifted and mumbled something, but relaxed as his brother drifted back to sleep."

Terry almost laughed. "He seems comfortable." She looked at her partner. "You don't."

"I'm not, but I'll take it." His eyes lingered on his brother's still form, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll take it gladly." Reluctantly, Don tore his attention from his brother. "Do we have a location on The Bookman? Does he have offices somewhere?"

David nodded. "He has offices, but there's no reason to believe your father is being held there." He shrugged arresting the gesture half completed and glancing at Terry before continuing. "Of course, even if we had evidence and probable cause, we don't have the Bureau's backing on this."

"We don't have a lot of manpower." Kraft said. "I'd like to have his offices under surveillance, but I don't want to deplete what little we've got. If he calls soon, I'd like us all available to cover the plan."

"The plan is that I do whatever I have to do to get my father back." Don insisted, his voice gaining volume.

"Don, that's not practical" Terry began.

"Practical? He'll kill my father. I can't let that happen."

"He'll want you _and_ Charlie. Will you trade your brother for your father?"

"Of course not!"

"No, of course not." Terry spoke softer having noticed that Charlie had shifted uneasily in his sleep. "But, Don, he's already made it clear that he wants the two of you in exchange for your father. You and I both know that Buchmann has no intention of letting any of you walk away."

Don nodded, his eyes glazed, his attention focused inward. His arm, freed by Charlie's sudden move, shifted, and he dropped an affectionate hand to his brother's head. He looked up at Terry, determination plain. "I won't lose them. I can't. I won't let Buchmann anywhere near Charlie again. You see what Charlie's been through"

"I'd go through it again if it meant protecting you, Donny." Charlie's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. He'd gone still, and they'd assumed he'd been asleep, but he'd been pretending.

"How much did you hear?" Don asked, frowning half at what Charlie may have heard, and half because Charlie had been calling him Donny since they'd brought him here.

Charlie ignored the question as he slowly, painfully sat up. "I heard enough. Don, Buchman used me to get to you. He used you and Dad to get to me. I'm involved in this as much as you are."

Don had expected to hear Charlie continue to call him Donny, but to his surprise, Charlie dropped the childhood name. He couldn't help but wonder what that meant.

Charlie swallowed audibly. "You know, I've figured out what he had me working on." He paused, but just as Don opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, Charlie rushed through his explanation as if getting the words out in one long breath might make them easier to say, easier to hear. "It's damage analysis for conventional bombs, nuclear bombs, germ warfare, almost any destructive force you can conceive. I was under a deadline when I was put in solitary. I'm sure I've missed it by now, and I don't know what he's going to do about thatI thinkhe'll take it out on Dad." He shrugged. "Of course, there's every chance that he never expected me to meet the deadline, even that he didn't want me to."

"What do you mean?" Don asked.

"I mean I don't see what use this information is for him. Plus, he had all the data and he obviously has–or had–a high level mathematician working on the project or he couldn't have built a mathematical code out of the evidence in the murders. He never needed me. He just wanted me to think he needed me."

Don nodded. "I was supposed to think this was all about me and you were supposed to think it was all about you. In reality, it was about Dad. Buchmann is keeping us busy. All he wanted was to hurt Dad."

"And what better way to hurt Alan Eppes than to hurt his sons." Terry finished the thought for him.

Don stared his brother in the eye. "Charlie, I'm not going to let him kill Dad. Or you."

Charlie shook his head. "I can't let you face him alone, Don. I can't do that. I can't and I won't" he stopped and swallowed the emotion that had jammed his throat. "I won't let you go alone."

Don stared Charlie in the eye. There was more going on here than just his brother's infamous stubborn streak rearing its ugly head. He saw something in Charlie's eyes that he couldn't identify. Fear? Regret? Desperation? Yes, those were all there, but there was more. He saw determination.

He wanted to argue, but again, Charlie kept speaking. "I have to do this. Don't you see? It'sI need" Words failed him.

Don watched him grope for a way to express himself. He looked like he had back at the jail when he'd told Don that he needed to get the numbers out of his head. Don reached for his brother, one hand going around to cup the back of his brother's head, the other taking hold of the waving hands.

Charlie looked him in the eye, and a communication, silent, instinctual, and heartfelt filled each brother's soul. Charlie smiled a small, tentative smile, and Don even understood that. The joy at finally being understood and understanding was almost overwhelming, even for Don. For Charlie, who'd craved nothing more than that all his isolated life, who'd lost the only person who'd always understood him when their mother had died, it had to be nearly crippling. Don moved forward to hug him and the brothers knew what the others in the room could not. This was their choice, their decision. Not the FBI's.

Alan stared at Mason in utter disbelief. Finally, unable to remain sitting while his life unraveled, he stood and began to pace. He was unsteady at first, but the rapid movement was clearing his head. He could not believe the power necessary to do all of this had focused on him. On his life. He remembered the case. How could he not? His biggest concern at the time had been the safety of his wife and children. Somehow, he'd received a threatening letter from this man all those years ago. Even though his own name had not appeared in any article connected to the case. Even though only very few internal people in his own office had even known of his initial involvement. Somehow this man had known even then, and had threatened his family.

The police had taken the threat seriously, and though he'd tried to keep it from his boys, he knew that they had, at the very least, picked up on something being wrong. They'd never discussed it. They were bright boys, though, and had known. By mutual, unspoken agreement, they had allit was like that story about an elephant being in the room and no one openly acknowledging it. He shook his head. _The Emperor's New Clothes_ had never been his favorite nursery story. Eventually, Buchmann had gone to prison, and the immediacy of the threat had disappeared. As the years had passed, it had become less and less important. Surreal almost, as though it had happened to someone else in another place and time, the memory of it faded and weakened.

"I don't understand why he would bother with me! You said...I was told that my family would be safe! You promised..." He cleared his throat, as he heard his own words in his mind. He sounded like a petulant child demanding equity from an uncaring universe. He inhaled and stopped pacing. He suddenly felt much older than he'd ever felt in his life. "He must be a powerful man to have done all of this. What I did couldn't have hurt him very much. Why would he waste his life, his money, his time, doing these unspeakable things to my family?"

Mason shook his head, and Alan could see the regrets in his old friend's eyes. "You took from him. He wants to take from you."

"What did I take from him?" He shook his head, and not waiting for an answer began to scream at Mason rage overtaking fear. "It wasn't supposed to be this way! You all swore my family would be safe!" Alan could recall what had happened so clearly. Over the years, he'd tried to forget, had even thought he'd succeeded, until he realized that the memories still haunted his dreams. He'd found that information by accident. He'd thought it was an accounting oversight. It wasn't until he'd brought them to Mason's attention that he'd realized precisely what he'd stumbled upon.

Mason had been searching for the trail for months, and it was only dumb luck that had put Alan on the scent first.

He wasn't yet a City Planner. That was several promotions away. He'd been combing through paperwork to check the accuracy before the auditors arrived. He remembered going through the long list of numbers, checking facts against the paper trail in each project's file. Amount of money spent, items purchased, permits filed, dates...the numbers had been getting to him, row after row, column after column. He almost dismissed it as his own tiredness, but something made him double check.

It was then that the numbers stopped making sense. He remembered wondering briefly if his son Charlie, nearly four at the time, might have found the inconsistencies sooner. He rechecked project after project putting aside the ones he found questionable. It was that stack that he'd brought to Mason.

Mason had looked it over and grown both pale and excited, which surprised Alan. He promised to look into it, and Alan returned to his auditing project. It was two days later that Mason had sent for him.

"I was wondering what you think of the things you found."

Alan felt he was being tested but he didn't know why. "I think there's enough of a discrepancy to warrant a closer look." He stopped short of talking about shady deals and breaking the law, but he was thinking it.

He'd cursed himself over it time and again after the death threats. Mason had promised then that his family would be safe, and now, all these years later, it was still all a lie. No one was safe.

"We cost him a few years of his life? Years he used to continue to build an empire"

Mason shook his head. "Try to understand. To Buchmann, this is personal. He wants to take from you what you took from him. It's likely that he's playing your boys. The work he's getting Don to report on, hell, most likely the equations he's set Charlie to work on, they don't mean as much to Buchmann as ruining your family means to him.

"My boys were children when this happened..."

Mason nodded. "That's why they're his targets."

Alan couldn't wrap his mind around what he was being told. As far as he could tell, Buchmann had lost nothing. Not his power, not his money. Realization drained him of strength and he sat down hard before he could fall over.

"Hisdid he lose his family?"

Mason looked up apologetically at Alan even as Alan inhaled deeply to steady himself. Whatever had happened to the man was not his fault. If his family had left him, or died, or been killed, or if half a hundred things had happened because he was in prison, Alan had to remind himself Buchmann had ended up in prison because of his own actions, and not because of anything Alan had done. That, of course, would be a small consolation if, as he suspected, the man was practicing the 'an eye for an eye' system of justice. He steadied his breathing, but almost lost it again as his mind substituted that thought with an entirely different phrase: a son for a son.

To Be Continued


	12. part 12

Manipulation part 12

By Ecri

Buchmann knew he'd been betrayed, but he could still pull off his objective. Perhaps he wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing Alan Eppes as he began to realize that his world was over, but he would still inflict the damage, and he would find a way to tell Eppes that he was responsible for it all. Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but the chef had every right to see how his work was received.

With Alan unattainable, he could still use the man's disappearance to his own advantage. His men had reported that Alan Eppes had been abducted and thrown into a limousine, but they had tailed it and watched the building for hours. Eppes' sons had not gone there.

If, by some chance they had been behind it, if the Eppes' were all safe and laughing at him, Buchmann still had an ace up his sleeve. Don Eppes. The Agent would want, would need to find him, to put him behind bars. He could still get what he wanted if he played this right.

He grinned as he imagined what he would do once the Eppes boys were in his custody.

Don's phone rang, shattering the silence of the pre-dawn hours. "Eppes," he barked into the cell, even as his peripheral vision picked up Charlie's hovering nearby. He turned slightly away from his brother, not entirely sure he could say what he needed to say in order to end this.

"I want you and your brother to meet me"

"Not Charlie"

"You have no choice, Agent." Buchmann spat the last word as though it were an insult. "Either I get both of you, or the next sound you hear will be your father's last breath."

"Buchmann"

"I'm not kidding, Agent."

Don's phone beeped just then.

"I'd check that if I were you." Buchmann advised. "It's likely very important."

Don checked the phone and saw that he had a message. No, not a message. A picture. Dread made each movement impossible, but somehow he accessed it. Buchmann stood beside Alan, who was tied to a chair. He looked unhurt, except for the haunted expression. Buchmann held a knife at Alan's throat. Don swallowed the bile that rose to his throat. He heard Charlie drawing nearer, and quickly scrolled past the photo careful to save it as evidence.

"I trust we have an understanding, Agent Eppes." Buchmann's voice was smooth as silk, but somehow hideous in Don's ears.

"We do. Where? When?"

Buchmann gave him the location and time. "Remember, Agent, don't be late. And tell your brother that I look forward to our next meeting."

Those words chilled Don to his core. He was still holding the phone after Buchmann had disconnected. He took a moment to compose himself then turned to face the expectant group behind him. "He wants me and Charlie to meet him at the zoo an hour after it opens."

"A public place?" Terry was puzzled.

"How's Dad?" Charlie demanded as he crossed to stand in front of Don, his posture and physical proximity making it impossible for Don to ignore him.

"He's okay, Charlie. He's going to be fine."

Charlie didn't say anything else, but Don saw in his eyes that there were a lot of questions. He brushed that aside and looked at Kraft. "There can't be any police involvement since we don't know who to trust." He gestured to his brother. "But I want him protected. Vest, wire, GPS"

Kraft shook his head. "We don't have any of that with us. Well, I think there's a vest in the trunk of the car, but the other stuffI can't get it in time."

Don had expected that. He turned to David and Terry. "I have no right to ask, but I need you on site, armed and ready." He didn't say ready to kill, but he knew they understood.

"You've already got us." Terry said as David nodded.

"Me, too." Pierce insisted.

Don stared at him, gauging his veracity. "You?"

"Me. You can trust me. I'm behind you."

Charlie snorted, but didn't say anything. Don realized Charlie was going to let him make this call. Neither of the brothers had had a chance to come to terms with what Pierce had done, but Don recognized their need for help. He took a step toward Pierce, invading his personal space. His voice was a menacing growl, and his eyes held enough of a glint of insanity to underscore his words. "If anything happens to my brother and my father, and I find out it was because of youbadge or no badge, I will tear you apart."

Pierce nodded, showing neither fear nor anger.

Don ran through a few things with the other agents and with Charlie.

"Don," Charlie finally ventured. "II meanI'm a fugitive, aren't I." He gestured to the prison orange he still wore. "What if the police are there or some officer sees me"

Terry nodded. "He has a point. Maybe we should disguise him. A hat, sunglasses" She let the words trail.

"Yeah, I guess we should do that much." He began to realize what nightmare this was going to be. This was an unsanctioned operation. Even if they got through it all with no injuries or fatalities, would the illegal nature of it all end their careers? Would they even have a chance of getting to the zoo; a public place, a tourist attraction, bustling with private citizens, and, certainly, the occasional police officer? Would Buchmann allow this to end quickly and quietly, or would Don be forced to let Buchmann take Charlie and himself to some secret hideaway where they would be reunited with their father only to be killed?

He couldn't think that far ahead. Accustomed to planning for every contingency, he recognized that planning just wasn't possible whenhe smiled to himself as he borrowed one of his brother's favorite phraseswhen there were too many variables.

Charlie was given fresh clothes, a hat, and dark glasses. Don had helped him change, the brothers slipping into one of the bedrooms

Gingerly, Don eased his brother out of the hated jumpsuit and gasped at the rainbow of colors that covered Charlie's body. Green, black, purple, yellow, blue, even red from the blood, Charlie's body sported them all.

He'd insisted that Charlie get a shower, and then he wanted to see to the rest of his injuries. He cursed himself for not seeing to it sooner, but Charlie had been hungry and exhausted, and then Buchmann had called...

Don could see the idea of a shower appealed to his brother. He waited in the bedroom after carefully covering Charlie's cast. He was going through the first aid kit when Charlie returned.

"You look better." It was amazing what the hot water had done for Charlie. He seemed almost relaxed...almost normal.

Charlie offered a small smile. "I feel better." He paused and waved the bag-encased arm in Don's direction. "You want to help me with this?"

Don did, and then pointed to the bed. "Sit."

With a tenderness few had ever seen in Don Eppes, he gently washed and treated the cuts and scrapes. He wrapped the still-bruised ribs, and dabbed antibiotic ointment over everything.

It was the puncture wounds that worried him most. David had pulled him aside to explain about the blood on the walls of the cell in solitary confinement. It had almost been more than he could handle. That Buchmann had driven his baby brother to such extreme behavior was bad enough, but his biggest fear was that Charlie wouldn't recover...that he _couldn't_ recover. Not physically, but mentally. It was a true concern. What if they came out the other side of this nightmare, and Charlie couldn't cope? He'd read once about a mathematician driven over the edge into obsession simply by tackling chaos theory.

When Don had taken the obligatory psychology courses in college, it had surprised and worried him that genius often seemed to lead to mental instability. He'd dismissed it at first, the way everyone dismisses such things. _Not Charlie. It couldn't happen to him._

But what if it could? What if Charlie could be pushed into losing his grip on reality? A grip that Don had on more than one occasion hinted could be tenuous in that he seemed to live in a safe little bubble.

__

You know Charlie. He's in his own world.

__

Don't mind Charlie, he's out of touch with reality.

How many times had he said or thought such things? Even when he had said them, he'd felt a hidden dread somewhere in the far corners of his mind–or his heart–that insisted that it could happen.

And yet...

Wasn't Charlie the one who'd been called upon to solve crimes for the FBI, the NSA, and who knew how many other alphabet organizations? Surely those cases, whatever they were, must have exposed Charlie to some of the horrors of real life.

Charlie sat still as Don dressed his wounds, but he was struggling with something. Don could sense it. Placing the last bit of gauze on the last injury, Don sighed. "All done." He looked Charlie in the eye, and that was what broke Charlie out of his silence.

"Donny, it's...I'm okay...now, I mean."

Don nodded. "Sure you are, buddy."

Charlie shook his head slowly. "You don't believe me."

"It isn't that!"

"What is it then?"

Don wondered how he could explain it. Charlie's physical wounds would heal. Yet, what about the emotional ones? They might not know for months what those might be. He'd heard of cases of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that took months if not years to surface. "I'm worried for you, Charlie. I was...scared...of losing you."

That admission seemed to surprise Charlie, and Don wondered at that. Was Charlie shocked to learn that he'd been worried, or that he'd been afraid of losing his brother? Before he could ask, Charlie spoke.

"I was scared, too. I didn't want to let you down..."

"Let me down?"

"Yeah, the equations...he...Buchmann caused your car accident. He sent that mugger to the house to hurt Dad. I...I didn't want to be responsible for whatever else he did, but his equations...they were scary, Donny. They were...scary."

Don placed a hand lightly on Charlie's shoulder. "You couldn't let me down. You've never let me down. You're...amazing. We'll get through this together. Only together. We can do anything as long as we remember that. We're stronger when it's you and me."

Charlie grinned as Don had known he would. This was almost word for word what their mother had told them when they were kids. It was a pleasant thing to remember now. Both boys felt comforted by the words because they were hers and because they invoked a memory, a presence, and somehow, neither brother felt so alone.

When they finally finished dressing Charlie, a task that took much longer than it should have thanks to the injuries, Don looked at his brother critically. Anyone who knew him would recognize him, but even then, not right away. It would have to do.

Don and Charlie returned to the living room, and Don glanced at the team. "Let's go."

Buchmann had planned every moment of his revenge, and he considered the meeting place to be a stroke of genius. He knew the innate law enforcement officer in Agent Eppes would do nothing to jeopardize the lives of the innocent bystanders. And, with the scheduled tours arriving just a few minutes after he did, he knew he would be able to spirit the Eppes brothers away without anyone in the area–civilian or otherwise–being aware of it.

He was still congratulating himself for his cleverness. He'd used a stand in for the picture, and had had one of his men alter the image with his computer program so that it would look like the Senior Mr. Eppes. With the brothers convinced that he held their father, things would go much as he'd planned them. He would still have his revenge.

He considered his preparations for the meet. That Eppes likely had brought in some trusted officers to assist him wasn't a surprising notion. Buchmann would bet on Terry Lake at any rate. The woman was practically family. She was of no concern to Buchmann. He knew what he wanted to do here. He had come far in his plan, and he knew it could only end as he had envisioned it.

He stood in front of the theater with several bodyguards, though none of them near enough to be recognizably with him. When the Eppes boys arrived, it would take no time at all to sweep them away with him. Perhaps it was ego that led him to do it here, but it was also meant to throw the boys off balance. They would expect an exchange. They would be upset when they didn't see their father. They wouldn't understand that this wasn't Endgame. This was the penultimate move in his lifelong search for justice.

Alan sat staring at Jeff Mason. "You're saying that my boys were set up by The Bookman?"

Mason nodded. "By now, he's contacted them claiming to have you."

Alan's heart nearly leaped from his mouth. He knew Don would never let that go. He would try to make a deal, do those things that the FBI does in hostage situations.

He had not worked out the details of The Bookman's scheme, but he knew that it would end with one or both of his boys dead. After that, what did it matter if he himself were alive? That was the revenge The Bookman sought. He wanted to leave Alan alone in the world. He wanted Alan to suffer loss as he'd known it. 

That he blamed Alan for his own sons' deaths was incomprehensible. They had died in a car crash while The Bookman had been in prison. The man had to know that Alan hadn't anything to do with it.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out this way." Alan whispered again. He turned suddenly angry eyes on his old supervisor. "You promised! You said they'd be safe!"

Mason sighed. "I misjudged the depth of his need for revenge."

"You _misjudged_?" Alan's eyes widened in disbelief and shook his head almost violently dismissing the words. "Jeff, he wasn't supposed to be able to find out about my involvement. That was the entire reason I even agreed to help with the research after I stumbled onto the scheme. If I had doubted for a minute that you could keep your promise..."

"You'd have what? Let him get away with it? Let him break the law? Damnit, Alan, the only reason you never joined the Bureau yourself was because you were afraid it would put your family at risk!"

"No! I was happy where I was!"

"You could have been the best agent we ever had." Mason had long ago insisted the same thing. Alan could recall when his supervisor had revealed to him that he had really been undercover, and that the Bureau wanted to recruit Alan because, as they put it, he'd "seemed to be one of the most intuitive and meticulous men of this generation, a real puzzle-solver." Alan had been flattered, but he'd never seriously considered the offer, and he'd never told Donny about it, even when Don had decided to join the FBI.

Alan shrugged away the memories. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that my sons are supposed to be safe."

"Don is one of the best agents we've ever had. He can take care of himself." Mason insisted.

Alan shook his head. "That doesn't mean his life should be put on the line!"

"We're doing our best!" Mason raised his voice slightly. "My people have no intention of letting Buchmann walk away from this. We'll take him into custody..."

Alan shook his head and took Mason by the shoulders. "You don't understand. For you, the final outcome of all of this will be The Bookman in custody. For him, the final outcome is both my boys dead." His eyes took on a steely glint. "For me, it's my boys safe. At any cost."

He held Mason for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He pulled it open, but two burly men blocked his exit.

Exasperated, he turned to Mason. "You can't keep me here."

Mason just shrugged. "I can, and I will." At a gesture from him, the men entered the room, forcing Alan back inside. Mason squeezed past them and stood in the doorway a moment before turning around and looking Alan in the eye. "I'll do what I can for them, but I can't have you ruining the bust."

Alan watched Mason leave, tried to follow when the two men tried to leave, but in the end was left pounding in futility on the door.

His boys were in trouble, and the fault was his alone. Oh, he knew his boys wouldn't blame him, but that was no consolation. That was not something that would make him able to walk away from this secure and happy. His boys! There had to be a way to save them!

He shook his head in anger wishing he could tear through the door with his hands, but when they began to throb, he stopped and slid to the floor. He couldn't even warn his sons.

Images floated before him. He could see it in his mind's eye. His boys would meet The Bookman expecting to find him, and, as far as Alan could see, there was no way for things not to turn out as the Bookman intended.

Charlie was less than comfortable. He tried to keep pace with Don, but his rib made it hard. His cast was heavier and itchier than it had been in prison and his disguise had the unexpected effect of making him feel more conspicuous than he ever had in his life.

He wasn't about to tell Don to slow down. He wasn't about to be the weak link in the Eppes family chain like he'd been his entire life. He knew how much he had cost his family, both financially and emotionally. He'd been aware of it all his life. He'd told his mother once that he wasn't that special that everyone had to sacrifice for him, but she had told him that when you love someone as much as they loved him it was harder not to sacrifice. He hadn't understood that at the time, and he'd wondered about Don, since he seemed to feel the sacrifices more than his mother did.

Now, he understood. Since he'd begun working with Don, his life had shifted. He'd felt it when Kim had come into Don's life. The realization of how much he and his brother hadn't shared had frightened him. They'd grown apart, and, though Charlie hated to admit it, if Mom hadn't gotten sick, they might never have had the chance to get as close as they were now. He didn't like the thought. He didn't like the way it seemed to make him need to choose between his relationship with his mother and his relationship with Don. He wondered over and over again why he couldn't have them both in his life at the same time. His fantasies of what that would have been like had seemed blissful.

His mother used to tell him that God never closed a door without opening a window. He hadn't really understood that at the time. Recently, however, he'd come to see Don as having come through a window that had popped open when the door of his mother's life had slammed shut. His relationship with Don had always been strained. Equal parts hero worship, frustration, misunderstanding, and envy had alienated the brothers. It was only through working together that they had begun to recognize that what they had in common was much more than just a last name.

His brother had always been important to him, but now...it was as though the relationship they should have had all along had suddenly blossomed before his eyes. Not perfect, certainly, and still growing and changing, but it was there, better than it had ever been before.

He didn't want that window to close, and he didn't care what was behind the next door.

He would back up his brother, though he didn't know what use he could be. He didn't have a gun and doubted he could use one if Don had decided to give him one. He couldn't fight too well even without a fractured wrist and a busted rib. He would do what he could, though, even if that was just to be there by his brother's side.

Charlie was grateful when they finally reached the theater. Standing still, unwilling to tax his ribs again, he tried to even out his breathing. It hadn't been that long a walk from where they'd left the car, but the short time he'd spent in prison, unable to ride his bike everyday, coupled with his injuries had robbed him of his strength. He spared a glance around the area, but there were too many people milling about. Don tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the far left. There stood the Bookman.

Don glanced around them, and then, a hand lightly touching Charlie's elbow, he led his brother closer to the man who'd turned their lives upside down.

Charlie was uneasy. He knew Don's instincts were better than his own in a situation like this, but something about getting closer to this man made his skin crawl. He felt a knot of fear in the pit of his stomach, and he was certain that his brother had no such problem.

They came to within five feet of the man and Don stopped them. Charlie looked to his brother expectantly, but Buchmann spoke first.

"Your prompt arrival has saved your father some pain."

"You're supposed to release him. Where is he?" Don demanded.

Buchmann smirked. "You don't think I'd bring my only bargaining chip here and release him, do you?"

"That was the deal." Don seethed.

"No, I said I'd release him. I didn't say when."

"Buchmann"

"Doesn't your brother have anything to say, Agent Eppes?" Buchmann turned to look at Charlie.

For a moment, Charlie was grateful for the faux protection of the sunglasses, the false sense of anonymity, of being safely behind some shield. Then, embarrassed by the thoughts, he slowly took the glasses off and glared at the man. Still, he didn't say a word.

"My, my!" Buchmann smiled, almost laughing. "Don't you look angry. Almost as angry as Don."

Don stepped slightly in front of his brother, and Charlie felt a rush of embarrassment that Don felt the need to shield him. That it had been such an automatic reaction must mean that Don saw him as a hindrance.

"That's enough." Don's voice halted his thoughts. "Where's our father?"

"You'll see him soon enough." He took a step backward and Don, instinctively, took one with him, keeping the distance between them the same.

It was just as Don moved away from him, that Charlie, already feeling vulnerable and conspicuous, realized that Buchmann was even now manipulating them. That thought was confirmed a moment later, when two men neared him and gripped his arms painfully. The man on his left placed a finger to his lips in warning not to speak, but it was the gun shoved painfully into his ribs that convinced him to follow that mute advice.

Don stared at Buchmann. He had expected the man would try something, but he wouldn't allow Charlie to go anywhere with Buchmann. Knowing David, Terry, Pierce, and Kraft were nearby made him wish they had radios. He'd love to know what Terry could see.

"Where's our father, Bookman? Turn him loose."

"I don't think you're in any position to make demands." The Bookman gestured behind Don, and, in that instant, he knew his plans had failed. It was confirmed when a moment later, he turned to see two large men, each holding Charlie by the arm. By the look in Charlie's eyes, he knew they weren't merely holding Charlie still.

"Donny" Charlie swallowed whatever else he'd been about to say, and Don could now make out the way one of his captors was positioned. To his trained eye, the man was obviously holding a gun on Charlie. The thugs were good, however. They weren't being overt about it, and, as they instructed Charlie to replace his sunglasses, it was almost impossible to see that he was in any distress.

Buchmann's smile grew and he moved to stand in front of Don. "I'll take that." He whispered as he relieved Don of the concealed gun he'd been carrying.

Don had no choice but to allow it. He spared a glance at Charlie, but, with the glasses on, he couldn't even catch his brother's eye.

Buchmann led him and his brother to a black limousine. He was shoved inside the car, and, as the car was pulling away, he turned to notice Terry, David, Kraft, and Pierce, weapons drawn and chasing after them on foot. It didn't take long for the limo to leave them behind.

Don turned around to face front and saw Buchmann leering at him with a satisfied grin on his face. "I suppose you've gotten what you wanted."

Buchmann's smile was a death's head smile. "There was never any doubt."

Alan had given up pounding on the locked door and demanding that Mason return and release him. He'd known it was futile, but there was little else he could do and his desperation was hard to deny.

Intellectually, he knew he could do nothing except worry for his boys, and already, he was feeling the precursor to the pain The Bookman had long ago promised him.

He prayed Don would find a way to keep himself and Charlie out of The Bookman's hands, but he knew, just from the amount of planning, from the meticulousness for which The Bookman was famous, that things were bound to get worse before they got better. From what little he'd learned from Don and Terry, and even from David, things like this usually declined rapidly.

That thought stopped him. Was Don involved in these sorts of situation regularly? Alan knew the dangers his son faced, or rather, he had a general understanding of it. No one with family in law enforcement didn't, but now he wondered if it could be a true understanding or perhaps it was too general?

Alan had to admit that it had to be so. After all, Don faced his own mortality all the time. He worked closely with people who could be killed on the job. He worked at putting away criminals who didn't only break the law, but often broke it in ways that Alan couldn't conceive. He remembered several times when Charlie was helping or even offering to help on a case that Don would hastily remove parts of the files, allowing Charlie access only to what was necessary. He knew what was in those files without having to see them: details, photos, things that Don didn't want Charlie to see. Now, he realized that they were probably much more than that. They were details that had already robbed his son, his Donny, of sleep or haunted his dreams, or stayed with him throughout the casework and beyond.

He shuddered to realize that his oldest son was systematically losing pieces of himself and that he did it voluntarily in order to save the innocent.

He remembered when it had been his chief priority in life to keep Don safe–to shelter and protect his son. It was something that never disappeared for any parent, but Don was surprised to realize how completely he'd repressed the urge. He could only hope he'd have the chance to speak to Don, to both of his sons, soon.

Charlie hadn't said a word since he'd uttered Don's name at the zoo. The thugs hadn't let them sit next to each other in the car, and one had kept his gun pointed at Charlie for the entire ride. He'd wondered at first if he should worry about the thing going off if they hit a pothole or another car or something, but he drove the thoughts away. He knew keeping the weapon on him was a psychological thing, so he'd worked on keeping himself calm. Don would know if he were a wreck, so he did his best to appear in control. To distract himself, he ran probabilities in his head, but they weren't encouraging, so he drifted. Pi, prime numbers, P versus NPhe hauled each one out as the previous one failed. P versus NP was almost his undoing. His hand started to move like he needed to write, and he caught Don's concerned stare. Stilling his body, he gave his brother what he meant to be a reassuring nod, but Don didn't seem at all convinced that he was okay.

The car had seemed to go on forever, but Charlie didn't trust his own perceptions of time. His perceptions of the outside world, after his incarceration, had become strange. He couldn't really remember the trip from the prison to the safe house, but from the moment they'd left the safe house, Charlie had felt as though things were moving at an accelerated rate. It was a natural enough phenomenon, but his fascination with it didn't make it easier to bear. Even on the way to the zoo to meet Buchmann, the cars seemed to be going twice their normal rate. The buildings seemed impossibly tall. Once, he'd looked up to see the clouds above moving at such a dizzying rate that the world seemed to tilt, the building, to sway, and the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and give in to his stomach's desire to go into reverse peristalsis seemed undeniable. Don's hand on his shoulder had steadied him at the time, but he'd been allowed no contact with his brother since Buchmann had forced them into the car.

He knew that this wasn't in the plan. Don had expected to confront Buchmann and retrieve their father. Charlie's concern for his brother, and for himself, doubled when the car stopped. This was where things would get worse. They were herded out of the car and Charlie was surprised to see that they'd entered an indoor garage. Whether they were above ground or below he had no way of knowing. Buchmann's goons marched them through the cavernous space and toward an elevator bank.

Once aboard, Don tried to position himself closer to Charlie, and, though the goons tried to prevent it, Buchmann relented and allowed the proximity. Then the man hit a blank button on the elevator's panel and they began to descend.

Charlie promised himself he would follow his brother's lead. He wouldn't hinder any escape attempt Don might put together, and he would be ready if Don needed him, no matter what he might ask.

It seemed an interminably long ride down, especially with a gun crammed in your back, but eventually they came to a stop.

Buchmann led them out into a corridor and they walked. Charlie saw Don's eyes darting everywhere taking in all the details he could, so Charlie began to do the same. He had to have as much information as Don. He was the trained logician. He might be able to help his brother after all.

Buchmann slowed their pace as they moved through the damp, dank, cement corridors. The hall was narrow and as they moved seemed to be narrowing. The slower pace seemed to amplify this feeling, and Charlie knew Buchmann did it on purpose.

The man opened a door to their right and ushered the Eppes boys inside. Inside, the first thing–the only thing–Charlie saw was his father.

"Dad!" He called out loudly, to his father, prepared to run to his side. He took half a step forward before remembering his moments ago promise to himself that he would follow Don's lead. He glanced at his brother, and saw the almost imperceptible shake of his head. Charlie stilled himself, not quite nodding, but somehow conveying the impression of agreement. He didn't want to distract Don, whose attention seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The mathematician was certain that his brother was as horrified as he was to see their father tied to that chair, though he didn't seem as surprised as Charlie was.

Then again, Don's experience with this sort of thinghe stopped his thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself, distracting himself. He had to be more aware of his surroundings.

Charlie stared at his father. He sat in a chair, his hands tied behind his back, and his head hanging down so his chin touched his chest. Only the top of his head was visible. Charlie wished Buchmann would turn up the lights so he could see how seriously his father had been hurt, but the lighting remained dim. Alan remained still, not responding to Charlie's call.

He heard Don speak, and turned his attention once more to his brother.

"We're all here, Buchmann. Now, let him go."

Buchmann walked over to Don. "All in good time."

Alan glared at Mason. "What's going on?" He stared at the equipment that his ex-supervisor had brought him to see. They were in a room that could have been Mission Control in any of a half dozen movies about space flight that Alan had seen. Agents were listening attentively to various machines, watching various dials, and there was the unmistakable sound of Don's voice coming from one of he speakers. "That's Don!"

Mason nodded. "He's confronting The Bookman."

Alan's eyes widened. Realization left him cold. "You're trapping The Bookman but you didn't tell Don. You're using my boy." He shook his head. "You don't even know if you're going to get what you want from this! You're letting this happen..." He took a step toward Mason, his hands outstretched as though he would go for the man's throat, but it was a voice that stopped him. A familiar voice. Charlie's voice."

__

"Donny!"

The voice was full of fear, and it froze Alan's heart.

To Be Continued


	13. Chapter 13

Manipulation part 13

By Ecri

Don watched Buchmann. His anxieties hadn't disappeared, not exactly, but they'd taken a backseat to his experience. He assessed Buchmann's words, his body language, his demeanor, and he managed to pick up on something that Buchmann hadn't intended to give away. Buchmann was afraid. Of what, Don couldn't guess. Something hadn't gone the way the man intended, but what?

As far as Don could see, he had them right where he wanted them. Appearances were, apparently, deceiving. Deciding to play along for awhile, Don adopted the role Buchmann had cast him in. "What is it you want, Buchmann?"

Buchmann smiled, and Don could almost believe that he thought he was in control.

"I intend for your father to live with the sort of horror I've lived with since he interfered with my business."

Don shook his head. "He wasn't as involved as you think."

"On the contrary, he wasn't as _un_involved as you think."

"Cut to the chase, Buchmann."

"I want him to know what I suffered."

Don stared at the man trying to understand. He'd tried to recall details of Buchmann's case, but even David's digging hadn't produced much besides the broad brushstrokes. The details were lost except to his father, and, of course, Buchmann. Don spared a glance at Charlie more to assess his proximity to Buchmann's thugs. He didn't see what he expected.

He'd thought Charlie would be straining to get to their father, that his face would be awash with emotion, fear chief among them. Instead, Charlie stood, still and calm, his eyes immediately on Don's waiting, Don could tell, for some signal.

Don tried to convey his understanding of Charlie's preparedness, and, somehow, he knew Charlie got it. His next glance was for his father. He hadn't looked up when they'd entered, and Don more than suspected that he was unable. Losing his patience, Don turned to Buchmann. "Whatever you're planning, Bookman, it won't work. You're not going to get away with it."

Buchmann clucked his tongue at him in irritation. "I expected more from you than hard-boiled cliches from kitschy detective novels, Agent."

Don glared at him and was about to reply, when a surprised sound from Charlie drew his attention. He took a step closer to his brother, but Buchmann himself reached out and took his arm in a vice like grip. Don turned and looked him in the eye only to see blazing eyes and a malicious grin.

"We're just making him comfortable." Buchmann gestured toward Charlie, and Don turned back to his brother. 

The goons had tied Charlie to a chair not taking care with his fractured wrist at all if Charlie's yelps of pain were any indication. They twisted his wrist at an odd angle, and he cried out. "Donnny!"

"Let him go!" Don spat the words. Only the gun still trained on him by one of the goons kept him from racing to his brother's aid.

Buchmann shook his head as that slow, grin slowly disappearing as he spoke. "Now, Agent Eppes, I've gone through a lot of trouble here. You might as well settle down and enjoy my hospitality."

Terry had waited with an outwardly calm appearance for a chance to speak to David alone. He was the only one left whom she trusted completely. She'd told Don that if things went sour, she and David would decide how much to trust Kraft and Pierce. He'd smiled, but she could tell that he had already known that. It seemed they'd reacquired the close relationship they'd had before he'd moved to New Mexico, before she'd gotten married and divorced, before their unexpected reunion here in the LA offices.

It was both a comfort and an embarrassment, at least until she began to settle into it. He, too, had been shocked by the ease with which they'd fallen into their old patterns. She realized now that it shouldn't have been a shock, at least for her. Caring about Don had always been easy. Now, they were just professional enough not to let the caring interfere with the job.

Finally, while Kraft was on the phone looking for answers to questions they couldn't ask through official channels, and Pierce was poring over Charlie's arrest reports for some unfathomable reason, she managed to pull David aside.

"We have to go after Don and Charlie."

David's eyes widened. "I know that, Terry. That's what Kraft's trying to do: find us a starting point." He stared at her. "So...what you're saying is you've already got a starting point."

Terry nodded. She pulled out a slim device, almost like a remote control for a TV, except it had an LCD screen and showed a red dot. "Hang on!" David said, then lowered his voice. "That's a GPS. How'd you..."

Terry sighed. "Don had a feeling this would come down to him having to give himself up to Buchmann. He managed to swipe this and the tracking device before we left the office. Just before he and Charlie left, he swallowed the tracking device."

David shook his head. "Shoulda guessed. He _wanted_ to be taken..."

Terry nodded. "But he thought we could save Charlie, keep him at least from being in Buchmann's control."

"So...we aren't telling Kraft?"

"I told Don that if things went sour, you and I would handle it. Do you trust Kraft and Pierce?"

"Don did."

"That's not what I asked."

"I trust them. Kraft's done a lot he didn't have to, and Pierce...well, I don't like him, but I think he's genuinely trying to make good on this." He paused considering what she hadn't said. "What about you. Do you trust them."

"I trust Kraft. Kraft trusts Pierce."

"So...are we telling them or not?"

Terry knew it was her call. David would go along with her decision. She just wasn't sure what her decision was going to be.

Until she made it.

"Yeah. We tell them. We're too short handed, and like I said, I trust Kraft."

David nodded. "Is there anyone else you can trust?"

She considered it. An answer flew into her head as if it had been waiting there for her to stumble upon it. She nodded, and reaching for the phone. As she waited for an answer, she cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner.

Alan stared forlornly at the speakers then whirled around to face Mason once more. He took a menacing step toward the man, and watched him take a step back from him. "If my boys aren't all right..."

"Alan, we're monitoring the situation."

"Monitoring? You must know where they are if you can pick up their conversation! Why not go in and get them?"

"It's not that easy. We have a case..."

"I'm sick to death of that! I didn't want to hear it! You got me to help you twenty-five years ago because of your 'case'! Well, here we are twenty-five years later, and the case isn't closed yet!" He waved a hand toward the closest speaker. "My boys are in danger. The one thing you swore you could do was protect my family. If you can't catch the Bookman, and you can't protect my family, how in the hell have you managed to keep your job all these years?"

"Calm down, Alan! We're going to help."

Alan blinked. "You are?"

"We are...just...not right now."

Alan felt his rage boil up from his soul. It was more than he could bear to lose Donny and Charlie now. It couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen. Moving before he'd even realized he'd decided to do it, he suddenly had Mason's throat in his hands. The man's eyes bugged out, more from surprise than any pain Alan was causing. Contrary to appearances, he was in control of himself. When he spoke, it was in a calm, rational voice.

"Jeff, there's only one thing I ever wanted from you, and you know what it is. My Donny is an agent with the FBI. Not to be left out, my Charlie has security clearance at the highest level. You can't tell them anything that they can't keep to themselves. If this is some sort of ploy to keep them from learning something or some sort of misguided 'need to know' nonsense, they need to know. Now, you bust in there and save them both, or your life won't be worth living." He squeezed Mason's throat just enough to convince the man that he was still as strong as he'd ever been no matter what his age was. Then he released his grip, turning away to see what else he could learn about his sons' predicament.

He knew Jeff's eyes were on him, but he'd said all he needed to say.

Terry stared at the GPS. Don and Charlie hadn't moved. She handed the device to David as she stood intending to get another cup of coffee. It was then that there was a knock at the door. She turned to David, and he drew his weapon, nodding when he was in position on one side of the door.

Kraft and Pierce hurried in from the other room. "That better be someone we can trust."

"It is." She hadn't told him who she'd invited to the party, but she'd told him that she'd called someone in. Taking a deep breath, gun in hand, she opened the door a crack and peered out. Sighing in relief, she opened it wide and stepped out of the way.

"Kim, thanks for coming."

Kim Hall nodded, her eyes darting all over the room. "Just the four of you?"

Terry nodded. "Who'd you bring?"

"A handpicked team. Five of my best agents."

Two entered with her.

"The others are checking the perimeter. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm just glad you were able to get here so quickly."

"We were wrapping up a case in San Diego when I got your call." She looked Terry in the eye. "I hope you can give me more details. Is Don okay?"

Terry nodded. "We think so." She handed the GPS to Kim and brought her, her agents, and Kraft and Pierce up to date. "Now with ten of us, maybe we can get them back."

Kim looked to Kraft. "I hope you don't mind, sir, but my team is ready for an extraction. If you'd prefer to command yourself..."

Kraft waved aside the consideration. "No need for that. This is unofficial at best. We're working without a net...that is we were until you showed up."

Kim placed a suitcase she'd been carrying onto the coffee table. "I've brought something of an arsenal." Opening the case, and gesturing for the other two agents to do the same with similar cases they held, she revealed rifles, tear gas, kevlar vests, riot helmets, and more.

David whistled in appreciation. "You've got some good toys."

She grinned. "We're going to need them."

She turned to Kraft. "By the way, sir, I've talked to my superior, and he'd like to speak to you when this is over. He won't be saying a word about it to anyone until he hears from you."

"I'm sure that will be some conversation."

"Not as bad as you might think." She grinned as she started handing out the vests. "We need to finalize our attack plans before we go in there."

"We need some recon first. David and I will go to the location and scout it out. If we can move closer to the target area, we'll be able to go after them that much quicker."

"We'll follow you then. We can take cover nearby and wait for your report."

Terry was surprised that Kim was so willing to defer to her authority, but she was sure it was for Don's sake. She knew the other woman had loved him, that Don had loved her. That had been one reason she'd believed she could trust the Kim. That, and the fact that she was in the Secret Service, not the FBI.

Terry and David took what equipment they thought necessary, but they wanted to travel light. In moments, they were on their way. _Hang on, Don_, she thought. _Just hang on_.

David stared at the bunker. "It's small." His voice was a whisper. They didn't trust that Buchmann didn't have sound sensitive surveillance equipment on the perimeter.

Terry's eyes were taking in the chain link fence, the obvious alarms, and other security measures. She was fairly certain there was more to the place then met the eye. That, and her GPS indicated that they were close to Don and Charlie's position. If they were close, the brothers were either behind that door or perhaps below ground. She'd seen a ramp curving downwards and a car leaving what had to be a below ground parking facility. It was possible that the bulk of the place was below ground. She'd never have built an underground facility this close to a fault line, but they already knew the guy wasn't exactly stable. 

They'd already made three circuits around the place. "We'd better get back. She glanced at the darkening sky. "With any luck, we can have them out by dawn."

The two returned to the waiting vans.

Kim and Kraft were setting up some equipment and had the parabolic ears up and running. Then a strange box was placed near the fence and switched on. Kim gestured toward it. "Interferes with video signals. It should mask our presence as long as we're quiet."

It was then that another group of cars approached the clearing. Terry didn't know who they were, but the cars were official. It wasn't until she saw Alan Eppes leaping out of the back of one of the cars even before it came to a halt, that she started to move toward the cars.

"Alan!" She moved to his side, and smiled at the relieved look on his face. "We thought...Buchmann doesn't have you?"

Alan ignored the question. "Terry! You're here! Is Donny in there? Is Charlie?"

"Take it easy, Alan. Yeah. They're in there. We're going in after them. What are you doing here? Buchmann said he had you. Don only came to get you out." Terry didn't hide her confusion.

Neither did Alan. "Me? No. Jeff came to the house, or rather, Jeff sent his people to pick me up. I didn't have much choice."

She'd glanced at the other man who'd driven Alan here. She raised an eyebrow when she recognized him.

"Agent Lake." Mason greeted her as though they were meeting at a picnic rather than at a raid.

She nodded at him.

Pierce stepped forward. "Sir?" He was obviously puzzled.

Mason nodded. "Pierce. Who's in command here?"

Kraft nodded toward Kim. "I suppose we are."

"I've got about twenty men including myself. Can you use us?"

Kim nodded. "We wouldn't turn you down, sir."

Mason nodded, but returned his own attention to Alan. "I never meant for this to go this far, Alan. They were supposed to be safe."

Alan nodded. "Then save them."

Terry didn't know exactly what was going on, but she welcomed the extra manpower. She counted the cars and other agents as they arrived, surprised to see an ambulance standing by. "You came prepared."

Mason looked grim and didn't bother replying.

Terry was about to say something, when they heard Don's voice through the parabolic equipment.

_"We're here, Bookman. Now let our father go."_

Alan looked at Terry and she knew he wanted to spare Don from having to play Buchmann's game.

Terry could hear the sneer in the man's voice. _"I'd love to agent, but I won't."_

_"We had a deal!"_

Don's anger made two of the agents flinch.

_"We did, but I have decided Alan needs more than to know that you both are dead. Once I've killed you, I'll kill him."_

"That's it," Kim called to the group. "We've got a declaration of intent to commit multiple homicides."

"It's not enough. We need him to admit that he killed those 9 people he framed Charlie for killing." Terry didn't know if Don would even think to bring that up. His concern was for Charlie.

_"That'll bring your death count up to a dozen, Bookman. Twelve counts of murder do not make for a quick parole!"_

She could have kissed Don. She would have if he'd been closer.

_"Those murders were necessary to my plan. They were casualties of a war your father declared on me twenty-five years ago." _

There was a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety being taken off.

_"As a matter of fact, I don't much care if Alan sees what I do to you."_ There was a shot amidst screams from Don and Charlie.

_"Nooooo!_

_"Don't do it, Bookman!"_

A second shot turned Terry toward the bunker. "We'd better move."

The team took up their weapons and surged forward.

Buchmann watched the faces of his captives. Their anguish was exquisite. He didn't really regret the death of the man who'd posed as Alan. It had been necessary to the ruse. He had them off balance now. He had them where he wanted them. Later he would send a video of all of this to Alan. It wouldn't be used as evidence against him, because he'd alter his own image. Besides, his private plane was waiting to get him out of the country. He'd go someplace where he could avoid extradition.

He saw Charlie struggle against the ropes that bound him tightly to his chair. He saw the rage on Don's face. This was as delicious as Alan's suffering would be later.

Don was talking to Charlie now. His words meant to distract his distraught brother. Buchmann allowed it. He knew it was about to get desperate for them.

Charlie ceased his struggles and an odd look came over his face. Don, seeing it, called out to his brother. "What is it, Charlie?"

He pulled at his ropes. "Don...it's...my skin...it burns!"

Buchmann watched as Charlie grew frantic. Treating the ropes with a chemical activated by body heat had been an inspiration, albeit a last minute one. Buchmann could see that Don wanted nothing more than to rip the ropes from his brother's body, but the gun his man held on the agent kept him at bay.

"You'll be killed if you try to help him," Buchmann insisted.

Don glared at him, and Buchmann saw the raw hatred, but it didn't frighten him. Don couldn't hurt him. Don couldn't help his brother.

Buchmann nodded to the man holding the gun on Don. Without another word, the man crossed to Don's side and held his arms firm. Don struggled against the grip, but couldn't break it.

Slowly, deliberately, Buchmann drew his own gun. It was something he rarely did, since he usually paid others to do this sort of thing for him. There were three people he would kill himself, however, and two of them were at his mercy.

He pointed the gun at the still struggling Charlie. The younger Eppes was struggling violently now, and was barely aware of his imminent demise.

Don was acutely aware.

"Nooo! Charlie!"

The cry brought Charlie's attention to Don, then to Buchmann. His struggles ceased as his eyes widened in apprehension at the sight of the gun pointed right at his chest.

Don struggled to comprehend that Buchmann had just killed their father. Unable to go to his side, he stared at the slumped form, but soon turned his attention to Charlie. His little brother had screamed as the shot had been fired, and his throat sounded raw from it. He was fighting against the tears even as he struggled against the ropes that tied him to the chair. It was when his brother stopped trying to break free of the bonds that Don understood the game had only just begun.

"What is it, Charlie?" He saw a stunned look on his brother's face, and he knew he couldn't possibly like the answer to his question.

"Don...it's...my skin...it burns!"

He took a step forward, but Buchmann's voice and the sound of a gun's safety being released halted him.

"You'll be killed if you try to help him."

He glared at the man, seething with emotion made raw by watching his father shot and seeing his brother tormented, not only by the ropes, but throughout the last few months.

When Buchmann sent his thug to hold him, Don knew the stakes were being raised. Buchmann raised the gun, and Don, in that instant, stomped on his captor's foot while simultaneously throwing his elbow into the man's stomach. He was racing a bullet, and he knew it was impossible to win, but just as he threw himself at Charlie, a sound reverberated through the room.

Don fell against Charlie, knocking the chair down and keeping his brother's body covered with his own. He reached over to tear at the knots on the ropes, burning his fingertips.

He heard Buchmann yell at his people, but he couldn't be sure what he was saying. His ears heard only a dull roar, and his eyes saw only the ropes.

He didn't know the bullet was lodged in his chest until he realized he couldn't inhale.

The agents rushed through the doorway shouting at the men standing guard. Several surrendered immediately, but a few tried to take down an agent or two before giving up.

Kim kept her eyes open for some sign of where the hostages were being kept. She had to think of them like that. Hostages. It kept things clinical, professional. Thinking of them in any other way...for instance as Don and his family...would only make it nearly impossible to do her job.

Room by room within the bunker, the agents swept through, herding Buchmann's men together. It didn't take long to seize the elevators and start to move through the building. With only ten agents, they had to move swiftly and economically. They couldn't afford to waste time or energy, or allow their momentum to wane. If it did, they'd lose their advantage.

They reached the last floor of the bunker and the elevator doors parted to reveal a long, narrow hallway. Racing toward the only door on that level, Kim felt her pulse quicken. Whatever else was going on, Don...no, not Don, the hostages, she told herself...would be behind that door.

She reached the door first, but waited until everyone was ready. Using hand signals, she gave the group a rundown of what they would need to do once they made it through the door. Kim was planning to go through first, until a hand on her arm stopped her. Terry. The look in her eyes was unmistakable. _This is my party. He's my partner. I go through first. _She nodded in easy acquiescence, understanding she had no claim on Don's future, only his past. Terry was Don's partner. She had every right to be first through the door.

On her signal, Terry threw the door open, shouting. "Federal agents! On the floor! Now!" The others followed echoing her words.

Buchmann stood with a gun in his hand, having obviously just fired. He raised it to fire again, ignoring the cries of "Drop the gun" that every agent was yelling at him.

He was just squeezing the trigger, aiming at a huddled mass on the floor that appeared to be Don and Charlie, when Terry shot first. Buchmann's mouth hung open in what appeared to be surprise, but in actuality, he was dead already, and falling slowly to the floor.

Terry and Kim, with David not far behind, reached Don.

Charlie was talking fast, begging Don to get up. That's when Kim saw the blood. She opened her mouth, but she heard Terry's voice before she could even think what to say.

"Oh, God." It was a whisper, but to Kim it spoke more eloquently than the most verbose of speeches.

Terry knelt by Don and Charlie, easing Don over and onto the floor. Charlie came up as well, ropes still clinging to him, and—smoking?

Kim issued orders, and Kraft took charge of the crime scene while she used her radio to call in an ambulance. Terry was trying to stop Don's bleeding, but the jacket she was using was already soaked through. Charlie wasn't helping. On his knees, he kept calling to Don, but Kim didn't think the older of the pair was going to come around any time soon.

"Donny?" He called, in a terrified whisper, tears running down his cheeks, brow furrowed and hands shaking. "Donny?" He said it over and over again.

David sat by Charlie. "Come on, Charlie, let me help you get out of those ropes."

Charlie jerked away. "They'll burn you. They burned Donny." He nodded toward the burns on Don's fingers, and Kim cursed as she reached over David and, using her own jacket to protect her hands, tore the ropes from him.

She saw the scorch marks on Charlie's flesh, the fabric of his clothes, and even on the cast that encased his wrist. Charlie, however, saw only Don.

What Don was seeing, she thought, was anyone's guess.

"Charlie..." The voice was soft but desperate.

They all stared at Don in surprise, but it was Charlie, perhaps because of his own desperation to communicate with his brother, who recovered first. "Donny, I'm here. It's all right."

"Charlie..." He raised a hand, and Charlie scooted closer to take it in his own. Don's eyes scanned him for injury, but found nothing he didn't already know about. He offered a small smile. "Charlie...you okay?"

"Yeah, Donny, I'm fine." Charlie answered hastily, willing to tell Don anything he wanted to hear, even if it meant denouncing all forms of mathematics as fraudulent.

Don reached up one bloodied hand, and touched Charlie's face. Charlie grabbed it, holding it there.

Don's smile faded, and his eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible, and then his body went slack.

Charlie's voice reverberated through the bunker. "Donny!"

To Be Continued


	14. Chapter 14

I want to thank all of you for your patience and persistence. I can't tell you how many emails I got encouraging me to finish this. My computer non-compatibility with the sight did hold me up, but so did an awful case of repetitive stress injury. I urge all of you to look into RSI and ways to keep from getting it. It is debilitating and the pain is unbelievable.

Anyway, on to the story. There will be one or two more chapters at the very least.

Manipulation part 14

By Ecri

Alan stared at his son's face. Too pale and too bloody, it was the stuff of every parent's nightmares. When he'd heard the shots, realized what was going on, for a moment, Alan had thought that both his sons were dead. Now, riding in the ambulance with his eldest, his thoughts flew back to that moment when his youngest had once again proved able to surprise his father.

"Go with Donny. He needs you, Dad." Charlie's voice had cracked with emotion, but it was stronger than Alan had thought it would be.

He shook his head, recognizing his youngest son's need for his reassuring presence, but, to his amazement, Charlie had shaken his head as if knowing his father's thoughts. "Go with Donny." He said again, sounding stronger and more insistent by the moment.

A look at his eldest at that moment decided it for him, and Alan clambered into the back of the ambulance, assuring the EMTs he'd be no trouble, but still flashing a concerned look at Charlie.

Charlie nodded once as the ambulance pulled away, and Alan watched him, still being treated, until he couldn't even pretend to still see his son.

Don hadn't come around, but Alan didn't want to ask about that. He didn't want to be a distraction. He supplied information when asked, volunteered anything he felt might be useful in treating Don, but otherwise tried to blend with his surroundings.

The ride was shorter than he'd expected and all too soon, he was being swept aside as the hospital's ER staff took control of the situation. He was pointed vaguely in the direction of the usual hard chairs in the waiting room, and he stared at the door as it swung shut cutting him off from his son.

He hoped that Charlie wasn't far behind, and only then thought to wonder if they would bring him here or back to the prison. His heart leaped to his throat sending him into a blind panic for all of a minute and a half until he saw Charlie, escorted by David, and Terry, enter the hospital.

"Charlie!"

Charlie's relief at recognizing his father's voice was apparent. "How's Donny?"

Alan shrugged. "I don't know yet."

Charlie seemed barely to hear it as the ER staff rushed over and began to check his injuries. Charlie struggled briefly, but there wasn't much fight left in him.

Alan watched him being treated and almost leaped out of his skin when a familiar voice spoke.

"They'll get the best of care."

Alan whirled around to face Mason, and when he allowed himself to speak it was with a venom he'd thought he'd put behind him years ago. "They will. And if I lose either of my boys, I know who to blame."

Mason looked away briefly, but seemed to force his gaze back to meet Alan's. "I'm not the enemy here."

Alan risked a glance at Charlie before roughly dragging Mason several feet away where he could be sure his son couldn't here them. "Are you really going to pretend to be blameless here? You? After what you put my family through?"

"That was years ago! You can't connect that with this!"

"You think I can't? I know who Buchmann is...was! I know why he's been tormenting my family! Is your memory so short that you really don't know what's going on, or have you been playing the plausible deniability game for so long that you don't even tell yourself everything you know?" Alan's voice was low, but it was filled with menace...a menace reflected in his eyes. "Buchmann wanted revenge! I told you he would all those years ago. You said it would never happen!" He drew in a long breath, stood straighter, his eyes flashing angrily, yet tempered with the determination only a parent can feel when the safety of a child is in question. "I won't let it happen. I won't let them suffer because you made a mistake all those years ago."

Mason shook his head. "The fact that you turned down a as promising as Don's will forever be unfathomable to me. Of course, though I believed you would have been the best of recruits, you were never as suited to it as I thought you were...as Don is." Alan's hands came up to grasp Mason's collar. Mason hit the wall and hit it hard, his hands automatically reaching out to try to pry Alan's grip from his jacket.

"You don't have him! You don't own him!"

Mason released his ineffectual hold on Alan's fists. "In the aftermath of all of this, I can't help but think that they would both have been safer if I'd had my way all those years ago."

Alan shook his head, and opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost when an alarming beeping caught his attention. He turned to the spot a short distance away where Don was, but his son was obscured by the sheer number of medical personnel and equipment hovering around him.

He saw Charlie then, wide-eyed and staring, looking as he had when he'd realized his mother was gone forever. Alan was moving toward him before he even realized he'd released Mason. The other man was irrelevant. His children needed him.

Charlie saw his father throw Mason against the wall, but he couldn't quite reconcile the image with the man he'd known all his life.

"Dad," He trailed off as his father broke off whatever he'd been saying with a hate-filled glare at Mason and breezed easily by him. Charlie stared for a moment at Mason, but turned suddenly and followed his father. Being under Mason's scrutiny had been distinctly uncomfortable...and yet...it was somehow familiar.

Charlie shrugged that off, or tried to. His life had often left him under scrutiny. He'd felt at times...at his most resentful, stressful moments...as though he'd been nothing more than a performing monkey. Asked to do difficult and not-so-difficult mathematical equations on demand...being stared at, laughed over as people found delight in seeing an insecure five-year-old rattle off a string of numbers they couldn't hope to understand. It had given him a lifelong sympathy for animals in a cage. He'd never enjoyed a zoo or Seaworld in his life.

He shook his head trying to break his bizarre train of thought, even as he realized it was a reaction to stress, exhaustion, and physical pain. He approached his family, realizing how close he'd come to losing the both of them...to losing himself...he stopped in his tracks. Something was going on that he hadn't yet worked out. He was tired of being a pawn in someone's game, and it was obvious to him that that was what he'd been. Mason knew more than he was letting on. He wasn't merely a benevolent superior at the F.B.I. He has some agenda of his own. Something Charlie's own father understood.

Whirling around, Charlie stormed back out to where he'd last seen Mason. The man was talking on a cell phone, which Charlie easily plucked from his hand. "He'll call you back," he said into the receiver, just before snapping it shut.

Mason just stared at Charlie as though he'd expected this.

Charlie stared back. "I want answers." If he'd been listening objectively, Charlie never would have recognized his own voice. It was calm, yet menacing like Don's was when he interrogated a witness.

Mason nodded. "I imagine you do." He moved as though to get around Charlie, but Charlie moved to block his way.

"That wasn't like my father...what he did just then. What did you do to him?"

Mason actually laughed at that, and Charlie felt his own eyes narrow.

"Like father, like son. What did I do to him? Not a thing. He wouldn't see it that way, of course. He thinks I ruined his life...actually, I'm wrong. He thinks I was trying to ruin yours, and that means a lot more to him than anything I might or might not be able to do to him." He did move away from Charlie then, brushing past the younger man. Just before he rejoined some other law enforcement people nearby, he leaned in close to Charlie, whispering into his ear. "The thing is...I don't think it would have been ruined. I think you could have been something to contend with if left in my care."

"You're care...what the h..."

"Charlie!" Alan Eppes called his younger son with the same level of irritation in his voice that the young man had heard when he was a child and

Charlie turned to see his father was still hovering by Don's side, yet his tone, the look in his eyes, and the tension through his shoulders cowed Charlie as it always had. He suddenly felt as though he were seven years old again and had written equations on the dining room wall. He obeyed the unspoken command, turning once to look at Mason and finding that the man had disappeared.

Kim read the official reports of Charlie's arrest, then she spoke to Pierce, the only agent involved who wasn't hovering in the waiting room with Charlie and Alan. When he finished his tale, she nodded once and fell to thinking. Pierce was silent as she did. After some time, she turned to the man and asked the only question she could. "You don't think this is over, do you?"

Pierce looked surprised by the thought, but then shook his head. "I don't, but I couldn't say that's based on any real evidence."

She nodded thoughtfully. "There are still too many holes. Who took notes from Charlie's office and why?"

Pierce warmed to the subject. "How did the Bookman know that Alan Eppes was really the man who'd noticed the discrepancies in the city records and set the police digging when the only one to testify was Alan's boss?"

"How did Buchmann have access to the prison in order to speak to Charlie to make that deal with him?"

"Who actually planted all the evidence that framed Charlie? Buchmann? Some of his employees? Or someone else entirely?"

Kim cast an appraising glance over Pierce. "Are you up to finding the answers?"

"I have to find the answers. I was as manipulated as anyone else was. I was used to send an innocent man to prison. I need to prove I'm a better agent than that."

Kim's eyebrows went up. "Prove to whom?"

"To me."

It was the longest night of Alan's life. He'd hoped never to see the inside of a hospital again, but he'd feared it. How could he not with his eldest son having such a dangerous job?

He kept seeing Don lying there covered in blood, being hoisted onto a gurney and shoved into an ambulance, Charlie–in an odd dichotomy, appearing both twice his age and half of it–telling him to stay with Don. His need to protect both his boys making it difficult to leave Charlie, he'd had little choice in the end but to go to the son in the most dire need of his attention.

Alan knew he'd be sorting through this nightmare for many years to come, perhaps for the rest of his life. Don shot. Charlie imprisoned.

It was more than he could wrap his mind around.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice penetrated his emotion-fogged brain, and he could tell by the tone that it wasn't the first time his son had called to him.

"Charlie? What is it?" His worried gaze fell on Charlie, taking in the bandages and the worry all at once.

"Nothing...I...nothing."

He started to turn away, but Alan stopped him. "Charlie, son...come here..." He took a step toward Charlie and engulfed him in a desperate embrace. Father and son clung to each other, each on the verge of tears and each holding back out of concern for the other. When they eased apart, Alan led Charlie to some chairs and they sat.

"Dad, he'll be okay."

There was more conviction in that statement than Alan expected. Charlie wasn't one to take things on faith. He liked to prove things. Theorems, proofs, equations...everything had an answer, he'd claim. You just had to look for it long and hard enough.

"I'm sure he will." Alan answered even more surprised to realize he believed that. He smiled at Charlie. "We all will."

Charlie gave him half a smile. "Well, technically, I broke out of jail..."

"Yes, but Buchmann confessed to the murders you'd been arrested for."

"Does that nullify charges on the breaking out, which I actually did?"

Alan thought that over. "Don't confuse me, son. I'll get us the best lawyer on the planet. You'll be fine."

"Dad, you can't afford..."

"You'll be fine," Alan repeated firmly.

Charlie nodded, but Alan could tell it was just because he didn't want to talk about it anymore. He didn't want to talk about it either.

Terry sat at attention. All David could think was that it had to be uncomfortable. He'd gone along because he'd signed the reports as well, but he hadn't had much to offer in the exchange besides moral support. As the ranking agent, Terry presented the evidence concisely and clearly.

Her Honor Superior Court Judge Abigail Samuels listened to the audio recordings as she read along with the transcript. When she finished, she removed her reading glasses and looked first at David, then at Terry.

She cleared her throat and Terry returned her gaze expectantly.

"Bizarre case, to say the least, but it appears we do have an uncoerced confession. There is the matter of his jailbreak..." She paused, but neither Terry, nor David seemed uncomfortable with the silence or the implications of her glare. Yes, they'd been involved, but their report indicated that. They weren't trying to hide anything. "But I can put that aside until a more formal inquiry can be convened." She took a pen and paper from a drawer. "I'll grant the motion to drop the charges temporarily until that happens." She scrawled a signature and handed the paper to Terry. "Just make sure none of the Eppes men leave town."

Terry finally allowed herself a smile, and David couldn't help but follow suit. "That won't be a problem, Your Honor."

The judge rose, and they did the same. "I don't know how things turned out so well, Agents, but tell Agent Eppes for me that I admire his tenacity."

Terry nodded again, and was out the door almost instantly, David trailing along beside her. She broke into a grin as soon as they were in the corridor. "It's about time they got a break on this."

David nodded. "I'm glad you thought of this before anyone realized he was technically an escaped convict." He could just imagine someone coming to arrest Charlie at the hospital. Alan Eppes' reaction wouldn't have made him any friends in law enforcement, but then, most of the local Federal agents had already decided to run interference if anyone local decided to take charge. Several had explained to David that many favors had been called in, contacts in local law enforcement called and filled in on things, and David doubted anyone would have felt inclined to act too quickly on an order to bring Charlie in. Still, taking care of things at the top meant they didn't have to worry about it.

It wasn't until they reached the hospital, that David realized their timing should have been a little better.

Terry walked through the doors to the hospital shocked by the sight before her. Charlie, handcuffed, was being physically dragged down the halls, struggling against two of L.A.'s finest while Alan trailed along behind demanding that they release his son, that it had all been a misunderstanding. His language was just getting colorful, when Terry raced ahead to intervene.

Reaching the group, she stood in front of the pair of officers, her small frame making her no less formidable and her relationship with the Eppes family making her twice as immobile than any other officer.

Smoothly, she flipped her I.D. open, flashing her badge at the officers, and speaking loudly and clearly at the same time. "I'm Special Agent Lake. You need to release your prisoner." They began to object, but she shoved the court order at them. "You'll see the Judge Samuels' signature. She particularly asked me to congratulate this man's brother on his tenacity. You have no grounds to hold him."

Cowed more by the look on Terry's face, and also unwilling to cross a judge famous for disliking those who crossed her, they released Charlie and left, counting themselves lucky.

"Thanks, Terry." Charlie said, echoed by his father. "I never thought..."

Terry interrupted him knowing how emotionally drained he must be. "It's fine, Charlie. I'm just used to thinking like a Federal Agent. The local police were sure to realize at some point that you were here. It was only a matter of time."

"You should have seen how persuasive she was with the Judge." David added.

Alan laughed a quiet laugh as though anything heartier was an affront to the situation. "Yes, I can just imagine."

Charlie grinned. "Me, too!"

"It wasn't anything..."

"Sure it was." Charlie's voice was low, but the sentiment was heartfelt, and Terry saw it and more in his eyes.

She nodded once, took a breath as though she would speak again, but just nodded again.

David filled what might have been an awkward silence. "Have you heard anything about Don?"

Alan shook his head. "He's still in surgery. We can't find out anything at all."

Terry shepherded the group towards the waiting room sofas. "Come on. I'll get us some coffee." So they sat, each lost in thought as they waited for word on Don.

"You're here for Don Eppes?"

Charlie and Alan leaped to their feet. "Yes, doctor." Alan felt the words try to lodge in his throat, blocked by the fear that would not diminish. "I'm his father. What can you tell me?"

"He's resting. He'll be in recovery for some hours before we move him to his own room, but he came through the surgery well. The bullet didn't do as much damage as we'd initially feared." The man smiled. "He's a young, fit man. Barring the development of any unforeseen problems, we think he'll make a full recovery."

Alan's hand grasped Charlie's good wrist, and it wasn't clear to anyone present if he needed Charlie to keep him upright or if he believed Charlie needed him for the same reason. Regardless, Charlie stepped closer to his father. "Can we see him?" Charlie had to know. He wanted nothing more than to see Don, to see his chest rising and falling and know that he would only get stronger. Don had taken that bullet for him. He should be the one lying there.

"You can see him once we've moved him to a room. The nurse will notify you."

Alan shook the man's hand enthusiastically, words of gratitude tumbling from his lips.

Charlie sat. From the way the Doctor had said that, he knew this would be a long wait. Impatience, guilt, fear, and sorrow struggled to control him, and he was just beginning to wonder which would win, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Charlie!"

In seconds, before he could quite understand what was happening, There was a warm, dark head nestled on his chest, and strong arms wrapped around his waist.

"Amita?"

"Charlie! We were so worried! Then when Terry called..."

Charlie blinked and turned to look at Terry, but saw someone else instead. "Larry?"

"Charles, our relief that your incarceration is over doesn't compare to our relief that your injuries aren't serious." His smile faded slightly. "How's Don?"

Charlie reached a hand out to shake Larry's as Amita, suddenly embarrassed, pulled away from him. "He's going to be fine. He's in Recovery. They won't let us see him until he's been put in a room."

Larry nodded. "Well, of course. That's the way hospitals do things. Charles, can you talk about what happened? I mean...what _did_ happen?"

Charlie shook his head. "Truthfully, I can't even be sure. So much makes no sense to me. I need to sort through it all."

Charlie could see Larry wanted to ask more questions, but he really couldn't answer them. A slight shake of his head, and Larry nodded his understanding.

Alan, who'd been giving Charlie a bit of room for this impromptu reunion with Larry and Amita, stepped forward. "I'm sure we'll get everything sorted soon enough. Once Don's well."

Larry smiled at Alan. "I'm sure you're right, Mr. Eppes. If there's anything we can do..."

Alan shook his head. "Thanks Larry, but we'll all be fine, now." His voice cracked then, and he cleared his throat swiping quickly at his eyes.

Two days later, Don had been moved to a private room at the behest of the F.B.I. Alan hadn't left his side, though the doctors insisted he was doing well.

Don looked at his overanxious father. "Really, Dad, I'm fine. You don't have to...hover."

Alan drew himself up slightly, an irritated scowl on his face. "Who's hovering?"

"You are." Don and Charlie said together, but Charlie laughed, much to Don's irritation.

"Of course, I think it's warranted."

"It is not!"

"Don, you were shot."

"You were..."

Alan threw up his hands. "I don't want a litany of you-were-hurt-worse-than-I was, thank you very much!"

Don sighed. "Fine. You can both just hover all you want. I won't say a thing."

"You just did." Charlie laughed.

Don ignored him as was right and proper behavior in such circumstance for an older brother. "Dad, did Terry say anything else about Buchmann?"

"What would she say about him? He's dead. He can't hurt us anymore."

Don shook his head, but didn't contradict his father. He felt like something was incomplete. He was feeling restless and needed to get back to work, but the doctors weren't allowing it. He spent his time reviewing the case in his head, and he had convinced himself that he'd overlooked something. With Alan always by his bedside, however, he hadn't had a chance to speak to Terry about it. If anyone could help him see what he'd missed, it was Terry. Don only hoped he'd get the chance to speak to her soon.

To Be Continued


	15. Chapter 15

I had hoped to finish this story by the end of October, but I wasn't quite able to do that. Here is the next chapter, with promises that I am already well into Part 16. With Luck, another week or so will see the story completed. 

Manipulation Part 15

By Ecri

The Scotch was the finest money could buy, more than he could afford, but Mason only drank it on special occasions. This was certainly special, but more in the "unique" sense of the word. It certainly wasn't a happy occasion. He poured a third shot of the stuff and downed it fast savoring the artificial warmth it provided.

His confrontation with Alan Eppes had the odd, undeniably ironic qualities of being both expected and unexpected. Mason had thought Alan would have said those things to him years ago. How the man had waited he would never know, but perhaps Mason had been fooling himself. It was completely possible, though he'd never considered it so, that, had Buchmann not created this latest drama, Alan might have held his tongue in perpetuity.

He hadn't been exactly silent when last they'd met, but he'd been unwilling to expound on his animosity for his former supervisor with his son nearby.

Don Eppes had been a new recruit then, and Alan had surprised Mason by following his eldest to Quantico. Don had been unaware of it all of course, which perhaps could explain Alan's reticence to be caught on the grounds speaking to an Academy Instructor.

Alan had been solemn, even reserved, yet Mason had known the man too long not to recognize the hint of something else in his eyes. It was unnerving.

"You've got one of my boys here," he gestured with a display of disgust to their surroundings, "in your playground. He's a good boy. He's good at whatever he tries his hand at, and he'll be good at this." There was no braggadocio here, just an acceptance of fact, of inevitability. "He'll be one of your top agents one day." He'd taken a step closer to Mason then, and Mason was hard-pressed to hold his ground. "But if anything from our past," and he gestured once more, but this time taking in only himself and Mason, "comes back to haunt him, I'll make sure you pay for it."

Mason had been convinced then that Alan would make good on his threat, but he had left Quantico quickly. He'd flown in and flown back out all within 24 hours. Don had never known, likely still didn't know, about it.

Mason poured yet another shot and held the glass up to the light letting it play across the amber liquid. Remembering Alan's words about knowing who Buchman was, he smiled. After downing the Scotch, he began to laugh. "Ah, Alan, old friend, you don't have a clue how wrong you are."

Several days later

Don stared at the walls sighing heavily. The enforced rest was not going well. All he could think about was getting out and getting back to work. He was pleased Charlie was well and back at CalSci, and his father was visiting frequently, but something nagged at him.

It all came down to manipulation. Nothing about any of this was at it seemed. Terry insisted that was why he had a hard time believing it was over, but he thought it was more than that.

The information on Buchmann seemed complete, but then again...he'd mentioned to Terry during her last visit that it seemed too superficial to him.

"How do you mean," she'd asked.

"Buchmann's holdings, his life over the last twenty odd years, seems to be an open book, but if you look too closely, you see it really isn't.

Terry shook her head. "I'm not following you, Don. He's been in prison, he's been running a multi-national corporation,..."

"Yes, but..." he'd have thrown something if there was anything nearby that might have made a satisfactory enough noise on impact. "It _feels_ wrong."

Terry had smirked, and he knew what she was thinking. "I know. I need hard evidence, but my gut says we're missing something obvious."

She'd frowned then. "I've always been one to trust your gut, Don, so I'll dig around and see what I can find.

Don almost wished that she'd just show up and hand him a laptop so he could do it himself. He was going mad with the enforced down time.

Mentally, he reviewed the case. There were so many details, it was easy to imagine there was so much more that he and his time might have overlooked. Still, it was Buchmann himself that troubled Don. If there was one his life in law enforcement—especially at the Federal level—had taught him, it was that you had to follow your hunch. Don's hunch told him there was something there...beneath the carefully planted "official" story of Buchmann's life. It was too early to guess what that might be, but Don had plenty of time on his hands.

It was late spring, Charlie had always felt a bit melancholy about late spring. Classes would be finished soon. Summer sessions were still weeks away. He's missed too much of the semester and felt he'd somehow cheated his students...or perhaps been cheated himself of the time he treasured...a time when the students would begin to blossom and truly understand, or not, what he was teaching. Instead, he's spent his time...

Charlie shook his head almost violently. He had promised himself he wouldn't dwell on the past. It was over. He had to move on.

He was heading to his first class since being released. The college had reinstated him, but had left the choice of whether he should come back now or wait until next semester. It had been an easy choice. Waiting would only make it more difficult. His father had tried to persuade him to wait, but Charlie just couldn't. He'd missed so much already.

The leisurely stroll toward his class from his office passed almost without notice, indeed, might have done entirely except for two things. One, he'd been so long away, he was trying to soak in every nuance of the walk. Two, there was little to soak. His anticipatory smile, soon turned to a look of puzzlement as he realized there wasn't a lot of activity on campus today. The math building seemed deserted.

He began to look into the classrooms he was passing. Empty. They were empty. Panic welled up inside as he mentally reviewed his schedule, wondering if he'd forgotten a holiday or had the time of the class wrong. He silently cursed the panic, sure he wouldn't have felt nearly so insecure about this before what Larry referred to just the other day as his "unfortunate incarceration"...and if this scenario were not so similar to an anxiety induced dream he'd been having since high school.

Reaching his own classroom, he peered in through the door, seeing the lights were out. He flipped them on in frustration and nearly fell over at the solid wall of sound that greeted him as students, teachers, and other university staff cheering and laughing.

The room was packed, and it was one of the larger auditoriums on campus. Charlie recognized his students—those from this semester and those from previous semesters. Front and center were Larry and Amita.

Charlie waited for the applause and laughter to die down before trying to speak.

" 'Unexpected' is an understatement. Thank you." He was saved having to think of anything else to say when Larry stepped forward.

"Charles, we could think of no other way to express to you how glad we are to have you back where you belong."

The cheering began again, and Charlie soaked it in.

Weeks later

Don glanced at his watch relieved to see it was actually passed 6:00 PM. His third day back on the job after the shooting, and he was glad to see the week more than half over. He was on desk duty until the doctors and the department psychiatrists all declared him fit for duty. Reluctant to admit that he wasn't quite up to speed, he had other reasons for appreciating the time he was putting in behind his desk.

Catching up on paperwork was something he did periodically, so there wasn't as much for him to do as he led others to believe. It allowed him the time to ask certain questions and use certain resources he might not otherwise be able to do.

Three days into his sideline investigation, he realized that what he'd previously believed (hoped?) were drug-induce paranoid delusions were quickly becoming reasonable, well-constructed, if somewhat farfetched, theories.

He'd reconstructed some likely events and some not so likely. He'd questioned Terry and David and even Pierce about the investigation from angles with which he'd had either indirect involvement or no involvement.

He shut a file and leaned back in his desk chair, stretching as much as he was able without aggravating his still-healing injury.

He'd disliked the time in the hospital for many reasons, some more obvious than others, and now he was wishing even more fervently that he hadn't been shot. He'd wasted precious time in recovery. Time better used in pursuing the true end to these most bizarre events. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and wondered, not for the first time, if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

He'd often enough heard from Charlie how people tend to see patterns that don't exist and while not seeing what should be obvious. He smiled, suppressing a laugh. Of course, what he considered obvious and what Charlie considered obvious were often light years from each other.

Don picked up the file he'd been collecting and slipped it into his briefcase. He wanted to run it by one more person. He checked his watch again and decided CalSci was a better bet than the house.

Charlie sat staring at the chalkboard. The equations weren't what had his attention, however. He found himself mesmerized by the swirl of minute particles of chalk dust swirling in the shaft of light from the setting sun. It was a sight he'd often watched before, once even calculating the eddies and swirls until the sun disappeared and the sky darkened. Now, there were no equations, no calculations, no numbers. Now, he was more fascinated by the normalcy of it, by the dichotomy of this moment. It was at once as though no time had passed between that time and this, and yet it was also so far removed from that last time...that time before he'd ever seen the inside of a prison, that this seemed unreal. Surreal. Not real. Not possible. Not true. Not.

A voice should have startled him, but somehow he'd been aware of Larry's entry though his one time professor and long time friend had been uncharacteristically quiet. "It's an odd sensation, isn't it, Charles?"

Charlie smiled, but didn't turn around to look at his friend. "What's that?"

"The here and now clashing with the there and then. The sudden return of your life after the horror you must have been through...I'm so sorry."

Now, Charlie did turn around. "Sorry? For what?"

"I wish I'd been more of a help to you."

"Larry, you were...you did!"

"Ah, but my form of help is more research and..."

Charlie laughed. "You wanted to ride in on a white horse, or bust through the prison walls with your bare hands sporting a cape and tights!"

"Well, sans the cape and tights, my young friend, but in a word, yes. It's incalcuably frustrating to be incapable of heroics."

Charlie shook his head. "Heroics, like Beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder. No other person could have helped the way that you did. If for no other reason than that only you would really understand my message, and only you would think the way that you do and drag my class into it all." He stood and closed the space between the two. "Sometimes hero is spelled f-r-i-e-n-d."

Larry nodded. "Corny, but accurate."

They both laughed and that was how Don found them.

"Hey, Don! What are you doing here?" Charlie asked surprised, yet pleased to see him.

"I wanted to run some things by you. No, stay, Larry," Don insisted as Larry began to excuse himself.

Don gestured to the table with a file he was holding, and the two sat down, as he tossed it lightly to the table.

"What's this?" Charlie asked.

"I've been working on...the case."

Charlie's eyes snapped up and locked with Don's. "It's not solved?"

Don made a vague gesture with his hand as he pulled up a chair and sat across from Larry and Charlie. "It is..."

"But you're not happy." Larry offered.

"Take a look. Tell me I'm not crazy."

Charlie slid the file closer to him and placed it between himself and Larry and the two geniuses began to read.

"You know..." Larry began.

"You're not crazy." Charlie finished.

Alan had dinner nearly ready. The brisket was keeping warm in the oven and the table was set. He'd sliced the fresh bread he'd bought at the bakery a few blocks over, and he had Don's favorite beer chilling in the fridge. It was only a matter of moments, he was sure, before his boys came home.

He heard the door opening. There they were. "Charlie? Don? Perfect timing...I'll just get the brisket..."

He froze as he realized the face staring back at him wasn't either of his sons.

"How'd you get in here?"

Mason smiled. "It was easy enough. Always was."

Alan took half a step backwards. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Alan, I'm disappointed in you. How'd you not know what was going on?"

"What?" Alan wasn't sure what to say, because things were just now becoming blatantly obvious.

Mason stepped closer to Alan and gestured to a chair, offering Alan a seat in his own son's house. "You would have made an excellent operative."

"Op...you...I told your boss I wasn't interested."

Mason nodded. "It was unfortunate, but it forced me to keep a careful watch on you. I'd hoped there'd be a chance to convince you otherwise." He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "If I hadn't watched you so carefully, perhaps I wouldn't have thought to recruit your sons."

Alan just stared incredulously at the man seated across from him. "Recruit _them_...you recruited Charlie?"

Mason nodded. "After getting Don to join the F.B. I., it was obvious Charlie would be a profitable addition to the team..."

"You were trying to get Don and Charlie to join your group." It wasn't a question. Alan knew it with certainty. He'd known all along that Mason had recruited Don. He'd just been grateful that it had been for the F.B. I., and not for that clandestine of all governmental agencies. "Don would never work for them."

Mason laughed. "Don't be so sure. If my plan with Buchmann had gone as I'd intended, he'd be too far gone to return by now."

"Your plan...Buchmann..." Alan swallowed. "_You_ were manipulating _Buchmann_?"

Mason nodded. "My final revenge would have been to rip your sons away from you."

"Why?" The question slipped out before he could ask himself if he could handle the answer.

"To defeat you, of course, Alan."

Alan shook his head once and closed his eyes, unable to fathom that the man's hatred for him went so far as this.

To Be continued


	16. Chapter 16

This is the final chapter of this story. My sincere apologies for taking so long. I want to thank those of you who have stuck with me and who have encouraged me to finish it. I've promised myself that from now on, I finish a story before I post any part of it. I hope you enjoy this.

Manipulation part 16

By Ecri

When, Alan wondered, had their friendship changed so dramatically. They'd been the best of friends once. He remembered it like it was yesterday...

Alan's work at the City Planner's office was the lie he'd lived so well, it had become his reality. Certainly his children never dreamed he'd had an existence alien to the one they remembered.

He'd been a thinker, a problem solver. Not special, like Charlie, but he could, as his own grandfather had once claimed, think around corners. Donnie was very like that...more so in some ways. It was why Alan worried about him. He might easily be recruited as he almost was.

Alan remembered it. He'd been approached by a group of men. Mason had been one of them. Funny how time and distance had removed the names of the others from him. Mason, however, had been impossible to forget.

Alan Eppes had never felt so positive in all his life. Things were going great. Things were going better than he'd ever expected. He'd applied for a job with the State, and here he was being called in for a third interview. He'd never heard of such a thing! One interview and then a decision was the most he'd ever encountered. Three interviews, six tests, and now this...he hoped ...final meeting.

He sat in the waiting room amazed at his own calm. He didn't feel a bit of anxiety and took that as a good sign. His previous two interviews had gone well, and he had no reason to think it wouldn't go well now. A feeling of destiny, of inevitability had bestowed a supreme confidence, and he knew it showed. This job would be his for the asking.

Later he would reflect on how right he was, but now, the receptionist picked up the ringing phone and spoke quietly to whoever was on the other end before telling Alan to go on through the impressive oak doors.

Twenty minutes later, he came walking out, his shock at the offer he'd received making him forget his manners. He didn't reply to the receptionist's farewell. He was out the door and halfway across town before he calmed down enough to review the interview in his mind.

Mason has spoken as if Alan's working for him were a foregone conclusion, and he had to admit, it was tempting. He'd been praised for his problem solving abilities, for being able to "think around corners" as Mason had put it. He didn't know what to do about the offer, however. Flattery was no reason to take a job, especially one that would so drastically alter not only his future, but his very self-image. There was also his wife to consider.

Mason had explained that taking the job would mean he'd have to keep secrets, and not just from the world at large, but from his wife. Classified material could not be discussed casually with anyone, even spouses and family.

Alan's only question about the job had been if it would put his family at risk. He'd been told that of course things happen, there was no real risk. It was hardly comforting.

He wiped all traces of stress from his features as he stepped through the door. Margaret was due to deliver any day now, and he didn't want her to know what he'd been offered until after the delivery. The pregnancy hadn't been an easy one, and, inasmuch as this was their first child, Alan wasn't one to be casual about the affects of anxiety in such a situation.

He entered to find her seated on the sofa with her feet up, and he sat by her side giving her a peck on the cheek as he did. He was about to tell her about the job offer, but something held him back.

"How'd it go?" Margaret gazed at him expectantly.

"All right. They'll get back to me."

The casual lie sounded awful in his ears, and he was surprised that she seemed to accept it as truth. He had a harder time ignoring the way the lie sat in the pit of his stomach.

"What do you want for dinner, darling? I'll get started." She made as if to rise off the sofa, and he stopped her.

"Why don't I take you out?"

"Out?" She smiled. "Where?"

"I don't know...steak? Chinese? Italian? Whatever you like."

They were seated at a romantic little Italian place about an hour later, and Alan was pretending to peruse the menu though his mind was really on the meeting of earlier in the day. He finally ordered almost at random rather than send the waiter away the third time he dropped by the table to take their order. After he'd brought their drinks, Margaret looked him squarely in the eye.

"Okay, out with it?"

He looked startled for a moment, but then smiled. "Am I that easy to read?"

"For me? Easiest read in the world. You know you can't keep secrets from me."

He nodded. "I do know that...but what if I have to?"

She frowned, but didn't answer.

Alan rushed on to explain. "What if my job were so sensitive that I couldn't speak to you about the details?"

"Like a lawyer? A judge?"

"Not really..."

"What really? Is this about the interview you had today?"

He dropped his voice to a whisper and looked at her earnestly. "What if I worked for the government..."

"This is about the job interview! What happened, Alan?"

The anxiety in her eyes was more than the conversation warranted, but then she was pregnant. Maybe there was some hormonal reason...he cursed himself for being a fool. Writing off his wife's emotional state for any reason wasn't really like him, and he realized now, neither was keeping things from her.

"Nothing. I'm going to turn it down."

"Did they offer?"

"Yeah."

She seemed surprised, but didn't comment on his earlier lie. "So...you don't want to discuss it?"

He opened his mouth to do just that, but then he smiled and shook his head. "No. It's just not something I can see myself doing."

The next day, Mason had come to him to reiterate the offer, and Alan had refused. Mason wasn't pleased.

"Why would you turn down this kind of money?"

Alan shook his head. "It's not money that matters to me. It's my family. My wife's expecting..."

Alan snapped out of his reverie, a sudden understanding passing through him. He glared at Mason. "You had it in your head from then, didn't you? When I told you Margaret was pregnant, you dropped the job offer, shook hands, and that was that."

Mason laughed. "It was easy enough to strike up a friendship with you, after that. I knew your kids would likely have your abilities.

Alan didn't allow his surprise at his situation to keep him from thinking. His only advantage, he knew was to keep things friendly...or as friendly as they could be when a man he thought he knew forced his way into his home. He thought maybe he should keep Mason talking, but he wasn't sure what might set him off. Of course, Mason seemed inclined to talk, so it wasn't like he had a lot of choice.

Mason sat calmly at the dinner table and gestured for Alan to take a chair as if this were Mason's home and not Alan's. It angered Alan, but he had to let it go. He sat.

"You know I went out of my way to protect you when that case came up. When "the Bookman" went to prison...but the truth is, as much as he hated you, as much as he was angry with you, it was me who ran the show."

Alan wasn't following. "You're saying he was a decoy? That you were the Bookman?"

Mason's exasperation was unnerving. "I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying I manipulated him. I called the shots. I _made_ him. He wouldn't be the Bookman at all if not for me. I fed him the information I wanted him to have..."

"So how was that protecting me?"

"I was protecting you from yourself. I made it so that you could see how much better things could have been, how much more power you could have had, if you had only followed my lead."

"This is about me choosing not to work for you?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Enlighten me." Alan almost winced at the sarcasm that had unwittingly bled through his words, but Mason didn't seem to notice.

"It's not that you could have worked for me. It's what we could have accomplished together."

Alan shook his head. He was missing something. "What exactly could we have done?"

"You and I could have been a team...like...like Don and Charlie."

Alan's brow furrowed. "What do they have to do with this?"

"You are so like Don."

"Don's his own man."

Mason nodded. "He is, but a lot of your problem solving abilities are his. You have an intuitive grasp of things. You can think around corners." He smiled, and gestured to himself with a florish. "I on the other hand, am more like Charlie."

Alan bit his tongue hard to keep from telling the man that he wasn't at all like Charlie. Now would not be the time to antagonize Mason.

"I have the knowledge, the power..."

Realization hit Alan like a brick to the head. "You're the one who broke into Charlie's office and read his notes!" Don hadn't wanted to tell him about that, and nearly hadn't, but in the end, it had been impossible for him to keep Alan in the dark on a case like this." His eyes widened as another thought occurred to him. "You're the one who did the math for The Bookman so he could do all those crazy things..."

Mason smiled the smile of a man pleased to be recognized for his contribution. "I fed him the information. He thought I'd kidnapped mathematicians in order to get him the answers that he didn't even realized I'd made sure he thought he needed."

Alan wanted to back away, to put some distance between himself and this madman. It was an involuntary response, and he forced himself to disregard it. Sudden movements with a crazy person in the room were never a good idea. He only had a tenuous grasp at best on what Mason was trying to tell him. Could he truly have manipulated so much of this? Could he have manupulated The Bookman, the F.B.I. and his family...

Mason was watching Alan carefully, and Alan decided he had to ask. "So, what is it you want out of all of this?"

The question seemed to puzzle Mason. "I want the satisfaction of knowing I'm able to outwit everyone."

"So why tell me now?"

"Don't play coy with me, Alan. I know you'd figured it all out. I know you saw through my charade. You always have. You probably did ever since you found out that I was the one who tried to take Charlie."

With astonishing, startling clarity, Alan knew that Mason wasn't talking about anything recent. "You mean...when he was a kid? When we got those threatening letters and calls? That was you?"

Rage killed caution and Alan was on his feet. "Do you know what that did to us? Do you know how terrifying it is to live with that hanging over your head? I couldn't protect my family! I couldn't keep them safe!"

"Almost convincing, Alan, but I know you've known about that for years. I'm not sure what sort of edge you think pretending you didn't know will do for you...perhaps you think I'll leave you alone. I won't. Now sit."

Reluctantly, Alan sat.

Once Alan was seated, Mason stood. "I'm going to ask you how you knew. What clues did I give away that tipped you off?"

Alan stared at Mason trying to gauge the effect of outright denial and outright lies. Would it be best to play along and pretend that he'd known about Mason's subterfuge all this time, or to be honest, admit he knew nothing and see where that took him? Which answer would save his life was a moot point. He couldn't spin a tale about clues tipping him off when he had no idea how Mason had done what he'd done.

"Honestly, until you just told me, I had no clue you were behind everything." He said the words, wondering if they'd be his last.

Mason rounded the table with such determination, that Alan again stood and this time backed away from the man.

"I don't believe you."

"It's true! I didn't know!"

The punch landed with precision and with force, Alan fell backward, his head striking the floor. Dazed, but still in control of his faculties, he scrambled to regain his footing.

Mason allowed him no time. In moments, he had hurled himself at Alan.

Charlie stared ahead as Don deflty manuevered his car, lights flashing and siren wailing through the traffic. It was almost a slalom the way he moved in and out between the cars. On several occassions, Charlie was sure they'd pulled off a few manuevers that should have been impossible. He closed his eyes, but that just made things worse. Dizziness was not a happy addition to the way he was feeling, so his eyes flew open.

"Don!" He called out as Don swerved again.

"I got it, Charlie."

Don's voice was steely with something Charlie couldn't identify. Not determination exactly, though there was some of that there, but certainly confidence, and a 'don't-mess-with-me' quality. Charlie had never seen him this way.

Charlie held his tongue for the rest of the ride. When they got within 10 blocks of the house, Don cut his sirens, but kept the lights. Within a block of the house, he pulled over and cut the lights. Then he reached for his cell and hit a speed dial number. "Terry, you there?" Don nodded. "Good, we'll pull up and I'll go in first. I'll leave the door open as I go in. If everything's okay, I'll come back and shut the door. Once I'm inside, you're in command. You have to consider me a hostage."

Charlie's eyes widened. He waited until Don had slipped the cell into his pocket, and marveled at his own restraint. "Don, what are we doing?"

"You're staying out here."

"No, Don..."

"Don't argue with me Charlie. You have to let me do what I'm trained to do." He looked Charlie in the eye, and there was a moment of pure connection when each understood what the other meant and what the other was thinking, and Charlie had to nod in agreement.

"Okay."

Don nodded and got out of the car. He leaned into the window to speak to his brother. "I'll walk from here. You get in the driver's seat. When it's safe, Terry will let you into the perimeter."

Charlie looked around and finally noticed there was indeed a "perimeter" set up around the area. Agents he recognized stood nearby, eyes on his house, guns at the ready. All of this seemed like it was unnecessary, but then he realized most of these agents were here unofficially. That was confirmed when walked over next to Don and clapped him on the back. "All here and waiting for orders."

Don smiled. "I don't know who would give them, since there aren't any agents here."

Charlie realized that the agents were taking this as an attack. They believed in protecting their own, and Don's family fell into that category.

Frustration overcame him as he sat back to watch Don walk to the house, alone, yet with a dozen agents watching his back.

He saw Don enter the house. The door was barely open when Don broke into a run. Even at this distance, he heard Don's voice. "F.B.I. Freeze!"

Then Don disappeared.

Charlie held his breath. The other agents were heading towards the door at a run when he heard the shots.

The neighborhood almost looked normal. Don could almost forget why he was here. Almost. He quickened his pace slightly, and opened the door. It took a moment to realize what he was seeing and then he was running into the house, shouting. Don held his gun to Mason's head.

"Put it on the floor!"

Mason didn't move.

"On the floor! Now!" Don's voice was loud and deep, and it brooked no disagreement, but it got him nowhere. He saw Mason's finger tighten on the trigger, and he didn't hesitate. He fired twice. Both bullets lodged in Mason's heart. The coronor would be hard pressed to say which had killed him.

Don's attention was instantly on his father. He knew when a shot would kill, and he didn't need to see Mason's body hit the floor.

"Dad, you all right?" He knelt by his father, watching as he tried to compost himself. He could see the beginnings of shock and shrugged out of his FBI jacket, draping it over his father's shoulders. He looked around and his eyes fell on Terry. She was nearby talking to another agent and giving orders. "Terry," he called, just loud enough to get her attention. When she looked over to him, he made his request. "He's going into shock. I need an ambulance."

Terry nodded, and Don heard her relay the request even as Alan grabbed his arm. "It was him! Donny it was him!"

"I know, Dad. It's okay..."

"NO! I mean, he's the one who threatened to kidnap Charlie when you were children! He's the one who orchestrated everything with getting Charlie thrown in jail! He's the one who broke into Charlie's office and checked his work!"

Don frowned. "Are you sure?"

"He said so himself!"

"Okay. Take it easy, Dad. We're on it, and he can't hurt Charlie anymore."

"You, too, Donny! He wanted you to join the FBI...he..."

"It's okay."

Alan shook off his son's hands, and stood up. The change in position made him a bit dizzy, but Don couldn't get him to sit back down.

Moments later, Charlie was there, the desperate fear in his eyes only slightly eased by seeing his family. "You're okay?"

Don couldn't tell if Charlie was talking to him or to Dad, so he answered for both of them. "We're fine. Dad's going into shock, so we've called an ambulance."

"Oh, I am not!" Alan replied testily.

"Dad, yes you are." Don spoke sternly, and, whether to appease his son or for reasons of his own, Alan didn't argue.

Three days later

Terry held the file as if it were distasteful to her, and, in many ways, it was. She approached Don's desk and waited for his attention before dropping it there. "It's a summary of everything we found on Mason's hard drive."

"Everything?" Don asked, smiling.

"Good point. Everything we're cleared to see." She sat on the edge of his desk. "It seems his connections were...diverse."

Don whistled as he paged through it. "I'll say. Look at this! He had more aliases than ten double agents would have."

"That's not all." Terry insisted. "No one can sort out whose side he was really on. Most we can figure is he was a mercenary...looking out for number one. He respected your father's intelligence and abilities, and, somehow, he began to believe that Alan could see through the most complex of his plots." She shrugged. "He cracked and he grew angrier and angrier at your father, convincing himself that Alan was going to blow the whistle or make some sort of demands. The entire plot was aimed at getting the upper hand over a man he beleived knew everything."

"He came undone, but he did it to himself."

"Exactly. So how is your Dad?" Terry asked as she stood.

Don smiled. He's good. We're going to take him out today...me and Charlie. We thought we'd take him somewhere nice for dinner. Then tomorrow we'll take him to a ballgame."

"Sound like some male bonding will be going on."

"More like familial bonding."

"Well, have fun, and tell your Dad I said he should take advantage of you while he can."

Don laughed, and Terry believed it was the first time she'd heard that from him since before this all had started.

"Thanks, boys. Dinner was great." The trio of Eppes men were walking back to Don's car slowly, enjoying the night air and each other's company.

"It was good, wasn't it. Where did you ever hear about that place, Charlie?" Don asked his brother, who had recommended the restaurant.

"Well, if there's one thing all branches of Academia share it's knowledge of the best places to eat in a ten mile radius of any given campus. The chef's sister is a professor who has the most fascinating take on chaos theory..."

"Oh, no! No lectures tonight!" Don insisted.

"I'm not lecturing!"

"You were going to!"

Alan sighed. "It was such a pleasant evening."

The Eppes brothers laughed, but Charlie sobered first. "You sure you feel okay, Dad. They didn't keep you at the hospital very long."

"Which means I'm just fine." He looked at his youngest son. "Don't worry so much, Charlie. I'm recovered. You're recovered. Don's recovered. We can put this all behind us and move on now."

Charlie nodded. "It just makes me think..."

When he didn't volunteer what it made him think about, Don prompted him. "About what?"

"Well, how do we know we're not being manipulated every day? How do we know we're not being carefully coerced to take a path that someone else has chosen for us."

Don looked at Alan, unsure how to answer.

"Charlie, you can't worry about that. You do what you choose to do. If someone else wants you to do it, well, that doesn't mean the decision wasn't yours to make."

Charlie sighed. "I don't know, Dad. I feel...used."

"That's because you were used."

Charlie stared at his father, a disbelieving smile playing on his lips. "What about the decisions being mine to make?"

"If I decide I want to go on a trip, and you decide to tell me that's the best thing for me to do but you're telling me that because you want me out of the house for a few days, is my going my decision or not?"

"Well, not if I made you decide that."

"How would you make me decide that? By suggesting it? By agreeing with me?" He shook his head. "In the end, it's still my decision."

Don stepped in. "Yeah, but Dad, Mason did more than suggest. He killed people."

"_That_ was _his_ decision."

Don smiled. "You're not going to admit this has you rattled?"

Alan considered the words his eldest son had uttered. Then he shook his head. "Rattled? Yes. I'm rattled. The thought that he plotted for literally years...that he had it in his mind to kidnap Charlie..." he stopped then and looked away. When he turned back, he stopped walking and put a hand on each of his sons' shoulders. "What you need to know is that his influence isn't important...if it's even real. Aside from recently, with the murders and this...fiasco...he thinks he had more power than he really had."

"But what if we think he had less power than he really had?" Charlie asked.

"Is it something we can change?"

Charlie shook his head. "No."

"Then why worry about it?"

Charlie nodded.

Alan searched his eyes and Don's making sure they understood. They couldn't undo anything. They couldn't ascertain whether things might have turned out differently under other circumstances. They couldn't even identify every modicum of influence Mason had or thought he had. All they could do was be sure to be comfortable in who they were, and continue to follow the path before them.

"Where the path came from," Alan said quietly, willing them to understand. "...isn't as important as how you follow that path."

To Alan's great relief, they each nodded in turn, and conversation took a natural turn to something lighter, less intense, as if by mutual consent.

Alan smiled as they climbed into the car and Don headed back toward the house. He laughed to himself as his sons began to argue in a unique blend of police jargon and mathematical terms. Normalcy, was a state of mind.

Finis


End file.
